Chuck vs the Scavenger Hunt
by sharpasamarble
Summary: 1x15: Sarah has finally given into her feelings, and Chuck couldn't be happier - until he realizes that dating an agent is complicated. Meanwhile, Fulcrum has decided that Team Chuck has been a thorn in their side long enough.
1. Wakeup Calls

_Ed. Note – This story draws upon characters and events from several other of my fanfics: "Chuck vs Auld Lang Syne", "Chuck vs Five Men, One with a Knife", and "Chuck vs the Strange Bedfellows". Reading those previous stories is not necessary, although it might provide a little more depth to this story._

_Usual disclaimers apply: I don't claim any ownership to Chuck._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Scene I - Casa Bartowski, Chuck's room**

Lights from the apartment complex courtyard slipped in through the open blinds in Chuck's window, highlighting the darkness outside. He had worked hard since he had gotten off his shift to get things just right. Chuck gave a quick glance around the room, and nodded approvingly.

Tonight was an important night; he wanted everything to be perfect.

For once, Chuck's room was neat and tidy. Deep, soulful music was queued up on Chuck's stereo. Candles were lit. His lights were carefully adjusted. Only one thing was missing: Sarah. And she was coming over.

Sarah was coming over. Chuck smiled.

Unable to contain his excitement, he let the music take control. He gave a couple of herky-jerky movements, trying to match his awkward movements to the rhythm of the song. He was thoroughly enjoying himself … until he looked up to find Sarah peeking through the cracked door.

A startled "Oh!" escaped his lips, his expression communicating his surprise.

Sarah gave him a smile, "Ellie let me in."

Chuck looked sheepish as Sarah entered the room, closing the door behind her. As stunned as he was by her unexpected arrival, he was more stunned by her beauty.

Her blonde hair was softly pulled back into wavy tresses that cascaded across her shoulders. She wore a simple but low-cut black dress, with a plunging neckline that revealed an enticing hint of cleavage. Even the thought that she might have seen a little too much of his dancing couldn't distract him from the prospect of spending some time alone with her.

As he tried to gather his wits, she shut the door and took an approving look around the room. "Wow, Chuck, what do you think is going to happen tonight?" She gave him a direct look.

"W-why? Um, what do you think I think?"

Sarah advanced on him with a sultry little smile on her face. "I don't know. With the candles and the music…" She stopped right in front of him, and planted a gentle finger on his chest. "You do know that we're just spending the night for cover … right?" As she finished her question, her finger drifted up his chest to his chin, gently stroking his jawline.

The night was a direct counterpoint to a similar night a while back. Trying not to lose himself in her touch, he tried to play along, babbling, "Yeah, yeah, yeah … why would I possibly think anything else. I mean, by now I'd say I'm pretty familiar with the concept of 'faking it'."

"Well, I'm not," she said suggestively.

Chuck swallowed hard.

She continued, "We have to take this assignment very seriously." She eyed him up and down, more a piece of meat than a teammate of the undercover operative.

He found he didn't really mind so much.

Chuck's voice jumped an octave as he spoke. "OK. I'll lose the music." He pulled away from Sarah, stepping over to his iPod to shut it off. He collapsed onto the bed. "You can change in the bathroom."

"That's OK." She removed her dress, letting it slide slowly down her arms. The receding fabric exposed a purple bra and panty set covered with a see-through purple mesh. Her eyes never left his.

Chuck's jaw dropped. He tried to play off his nervousness, but he found he had trouble speaking clearly. "What? You give me crap about lighting some candles and you come in … wearing … that?"

She slowly sauntered over towards his side of the bed. "What, this? This is part of my cover."

As she approached, the room seemed to grow very warm. "Uh … well, it doesn't … cover a thing."

Sarah's smile seemed to suggest that that was the point. "And what if Ellie or Awesome were to walk in? This is exactly what a girlfriend would wear to seduce her boyfriend."

She placed a knee on the bed and threw her other leg over him, straddling him at the waist. She leaned down, very deliberately placing a hand on the pillow on either side of his head. Her mouth moved closer to his, her eyes locked on his. "I am just … being … professional."

Her mouth was so close he could feel her breath on his lips. The sensation drove him wild; he could not hold himself back any longer.

His hands slid around her neck and pulled her towards him. His mouth sought out hers, desperately seeking to quench the fire that she had ignited. Rather than calm his passion, her return kiss, soft and teasing, only inflamed him further, driving him quickly towards the edge of losing all control.

Sarah separated, sitting back up, her beauty intensified by the flickering candlelight. Chuck gazed up at her in disbelief. Her expression became even more seductive expression. She said, "Oh, Romeo…"

That seemed very odd; he gave her a questioning look. She repeated herself, her voice suddenly deeper. "Oh, Romeo…"

Chuck woke up with a start. Casey was staring down at him from far too close to his face; Chuck let out an involuntary cry.

Casey smirked as he stood up.

Chuck tried to get his bearings. The window was open, letting in the early morning light and showing how Casey had entered the room.

"Have a nice dream?" Casey asked. He walked away. "Whoever she was, she'll probably thank me for saving her from the inevitable disappointment."

Chuck rolled over and muttered to himself, "This is no way to start the day."

**Scene II – Nerd Herder**

It wasn't unusual for the ride over to the Buy More to be fairly quiet; Casey wasn't much of a talker. However, the Friday morning ride was a little more tense than usual.

Chuck was discomfited by Casey's early morning stunt. The NSA agent had woken Chuck up about forty minutes before his alarm was slated to go off, and had done so in a deliberately annoying way. The latter part had succeeded: Chuck was definitely annoyed. What Chuck couldn't figure out is why Casey woken him up early in the first place.

The ostensible reason for the change was that Casey wanted to start shifting their schedule randomly from time to time to make their movements less predictable. Still, Chuck couldn't help but suspect that Casey just wanted Chuck off-balance or further under his thumb … but why?

Groggily, Chuck pushed the thought aside. He was too tired to try to read minds, so he chose instead to focus on being irritated at Casey. That certainly helped when Casey made a probing comment out of the blue.

"So, I guess you're happy that Agent Walker is back."

Had Casey spoken those words at any other point, Chuck's poker face might have slipped. However, his exasperation gave him the focus he needed to avoid showing any emotion. Casey staring intently at him searching for the slightest hint of a reaction; Chuck wasn't about to give him any satisfaction.

When no reaction was forthcoming, Casey decided to dig a little more. "You two have an interesting conversation last night?"

Sarah had shown up at his door late the previous night, just a few hours removed from returning from a mission with Bryce – and from finding out that Chuck had slept with her sister, Carina. The two were supposed to share a Valentine's Day dinner, but when Sarah didn't show, Chuck had to assume the worst. He fully expected her to leave, and wasn't even sure if he would see her again. He had even packed up her things for her so their goodbye could be as quick and as painless as possible.

When she arrived, the two had exchanged few words; Chuck had struggled to even look at her. He had assumed that Sarah was just there to wish him luck and maybe give him a parting few words of advice before slipping back into the covert underworld she called home.

Instead, she had kissed him. In that one moment, everything changed.

Unfortunately, with Casey living in the apartment next door, she couldn't stay. She used a device in her cell phone to jam Casey's monitoring system, quickly apologized that she needed to leave, and went to deal with Casey. Chuck went back to his bedroom and lay staring at the ceiling until he fell asleep, a stupid, goofy grin plastered across his face.

Sarah had warned him that Casey would try to pry information out of him. Even with the warning, he was hard-pressed to keep a straight face. Unwittingly, Casey's wake-up call had given Chuck the mechanism to help him keep things hidden.

Chuck answered Casey's question with another question. "What, aren't you? This way you avoid the need to break in a new partner."

Casey was silent for a long moment. Chuck had no idea what the agent was thinking; the only response was a noncommittal grunt.

The agent probed another time or two, but each time Chuck was able to deflect. Seeing the frustration grow in Casey gave Chuck a small glow of satisfaction; it only seemed fitting that Chuck had found a way to repay Casey for the wake-up call.

* * *

Hours later, Chuck found himself in a much better mood, as getting in early to the Buy More had proven to be a blessing.

He had gone ahead and cleared out a number of items in the Nerd Herd queue before Big Mike got there. For whatever reason, the big man was unusually animated that morning, and he seemed to be looking for an excuse to go off. He accosted Chuck about two repair jobs and three standard store tasks, all of which Chuck had already completed. Deprived of an excuse to lay into him, Big Mike delivered a departing shot that was more bark than bite and went looking for easier targets.

Chuck marked off a last couple of items on his clipboard as Jeff and Lester arrived in Big Mike's wake, shaking his head. Lester said, "I see Big Mike is in a stellar mood."

Chuck shook his head in agreement. "Something's eating him, that's for sure." Dropping the clipboard behind the desk, he asked, "So, you ready to D.A.S.H.?"

"Naw, Chuck, I just ate," Lester feigned heartburn for emphasis.

Jeff added, "Running isn't really my thing. I'm more of a thinker."

Chuck said, "While I appreciate your commitment to your health, I'm talking Devon's Awesome Scavenger Hunt. You guys doing it?"

Lester said nonchalantly, "Oh, the scavenger hunt. Yeah. Is that this weekend?" He looked over at Jeff.

Jeff shook his head. "I had no idea."

"Wow, I … I really hadn't given it much thought. I guess we could do it, right Jeff?"

"My calendar's open."

Chuck was immediately suspicious. He was prepared to admit that he had a terrible poker face, but Lester's was beyond terrible. "What are you two up to?"

Jeff said, "A little something we like to call 'redemption'."

"Shut up," Lester muttered angrily out of the side of his mouth.

Chuck's eyes narrowed. Lester and Jeff had come in last place in the scavenger hunt three years running. It was especially grating to Lester because the last-place team had to complete the loser's challenge, which was never a big deal - unless you had trouble laughing at yourself. Lester and Jeff could dish it out, but they couldn't take it.

Chuck and Ellie, on the other hand, were defending champions, much to the chagrin of Devon's fraternity brothers. This year, though, Ellie and Chuck wouldn't be partners, as Chuck planned to partner with Sarah. He smiled at the thought.

Still, he was worried what Jeff and Lester might have planned. He was about to ask about it when he noticed the time. It would need to wait. "Um, don't you two have service calls to make this morning?"

"Yeah, we'll leave in a few minutes," Lester said.

"You do remember the new Buy More policy that says Nerd Herders can have their pay docked if they show up late."

"You wouldn't do that, Chuck."

Jeff added, "Yeah, you don't have the cojones."

"Actually, I don't have to do it. The Buy More Nerd Herd reporting system ties it automatically to the payroll system now. As soon as I enter that you are late for an appointment, you lose money from your pocket."

"Yeah, right." The pair looked at each other and laughed. Their laughter quickly became nervous as they notice that Chuck's confident manner wasn't changing.

Finally, they realized that he wasn't kidding. The two scrambled behind to desk to grab their bags and their repair assignments. They dashed for the front of the store, Jeff barely managing to avoid knocking a customer to the ground in the process.

Chuck shook his head and let his mind drift to more pleasant thoughts. A happy smile came to his face as he pictured a weekend cruising around Los Angeles in Sarah's car, without a bad guy – or Casey – in sight.

**Scene III – Sarah's Hotel Room**

Bright sunlight poured into Sarah's apartment. Given the amount of light streaming in, the room was deceptively cool. Sarah had the covers pulled up to her chin against the chill; only her face and her flowing blond hair were visible.

Her eyes were wide open, and she was smiling.

Sarah had awoken long before her alarm was supposed to go off; her internal clock was still on Venezuelan time. Her instincts told her to get up and get organized; her room was basically a disaster area after her aborted decision to leave the assignment. Piles of clothes, some folded and some unfolded, covered every available surface in the room, including the unused half of her bed.

She couldn't tolerate messes; messes meant sloppiness and disorder, and those were two traits an agent couldn't afford if he planned to have a long career. Still, she found herself preferring to lie there, replaying the events of yesterday in her head over and over again.

Kissing Chuck had been one of the hardest things she had ever done. She had become so used to seeing emotion as something to be repressed. Occasionally she would draw on a portion of a physical attraction when she needed to play the seductress for her job, but even then, emotions remained firmly removed from any actions on her mission. To step forward and to kiss Chuck, an action that came purely from her heart, went against every instinct she had honed over her CIA career.

Her racing heart had nearly stopped dead in its tracks when Chuck hadn't responded at first. She had fought against the urge to pull away, forcing her self-defense mechanisms to the background as she poured herself into that kiss. It felt mechanical, even a bit awkward at times, but she tried to funnel as much emotion as possible into her kiss so Chuck would understand how she felt about him.

Her heart started beating again when Chuck finally responded.

A strange thing happened when Chuck returned her kiss: a long dormant part of her seemed to reawaken. The instant that Chuck kissed her back, all traces of thought abandoned her. His lips would move, and she would respond. She would want to respond. She would need to respond. Lips would trigger tongues would trigger hands would trigger more primal reactions deep within her.

Sarah found herself warm and breathless and passionate and safe in his arms. Everything made perfect sense in that moment, that one perfect moment that ended all too soon.

Her memory of the rest of the conversation was cloudy. The agent and the woman overlapped and blurred in her mind; she vaguely remembered warning him that Casey would likely try to pry, and that the two of them would need to talk through things at lunch. Then she said good night with a bittersweet, all too short good-night kiss.

How she wished she could have stayed. It was another opportunity missed, like so many others lost because her job kept getting in the way. Chuck having the Intersect kept getting in the way. However, she reminded herself that having some time with Chuck was far better than the alternative – saying goodbye and never seeing him again.

She quickly evicted that last thought from her mind.

As she lay there, she tried to recapture the feeling she had during that kiss, but the feeling was elusive. It made her long for another moment so she could remember and savor that feeling once more.

The reality of what she had done started to dawn on her. Everything had changed during the kiss, and there was so much to be nervous about.

Her success as an agent had been tied to her meticulous preparation and control of herself. By allowing things to go forward with Chuck, she had consciously ceded some of that precious control. Chuck, Casey, and her emotions all threatened to be distractions now. It was going to take some unbelievable self-discipline to remain focused during missions.

Sarah was also nervous about dating Chuck. She had never allowed herself to be truly open with a man, not even in high school in the days before she joined the CIA. She never had that luxury. It would take some serious adjusting on her part, especially since he so often deferred control to her in their field work together.

She sighed. _What have I gotten myself into?_

Unbidden, an image of Chuck standing in Ellie's apartment doorway sprung to her mind, the beautiful smile on his face communicating every last emotion he felt. While that smile warmed her through, she found herself again wondering if she were worthy of that kind of adoration from any man, especially as good a man as Chuck.

Did he just have her up on a pedestal because she was unobtainable? Even worse, did he have her on a pedestal because he didn't truly know her?

She supposed the former was as much a risk for her as for him. The prospect of a normal life and, to a lesser extent, dating an asset made him forbidden fruit for her as well. Besides, it was the other thing that scared her more.

She had to wonder if, in the course of dating, Chuck would discover sides of her that weren't as attractive. She had certainly done some things as an agent that would shock a man as innocent as Chuck. She sighed again. Could somebody as good-hearted as Chuck ever truly love somebody like her?

Sarah pulled herself back from the emotional edge. Going down this road wasn't going to help anything.

She reminded herself of something she had thought about on the drive home the previous evening. The spy business was about calculated gambles, gambles that should only be taken when the reward was worth the risk. As she pictured Chuck in her mind, she knew that he was a reward worth the risk.

They just had to keep Casey or the DoD from finding out. That would be disastrous.

Glancing across the room, she noticed that her alarm clock read 9:29. She threw the covers aside, crossed the room and shut off the alarm just before the numbers changed to 9:30, avoiding the annoying buzzer by mere seconds.

Her heart fluttered when she realized that she would see him in just two hours. It seemed so close and so far away at the same time.

**Scene IV – Darkened Office**

Four images highlighted the various quadrants of the video screen in the ornate office. The Fulcrum leader, code-named Proteus, smiled as he leaned back in his chair and surveyed the imposing group.

In the upper left was Brandon Jennings, the congressional representative from California's 42nd district. Among the four people on the video screen, his face was the only one that betrayed the slightest bit of nervousness.

In the upper right was Alex Moreno, looking severely ticked off. Proteus couldn't blame Moreno: the operation to take out the Venezuelan president had just been postponed that morning. The former FBI agent had laid several months of groundwork on the project and was none to happy to hear about the delay, especially given his feelings about the president of his homeland.

It couldn't be helped; not after the disastrous events in the jungles of Colombia. Two American agents had attacked an AUC encampment, killing 19 soldiers. In the wake of the attack, the AUC, a key component of the Venezuelan operation, killed the intermediary and refused to participate any further, preferring to retreat into the jungle to lick their wounds. Fulcrum needed to reassess the situation before they went forward. That was cold comfort to Moreno.

The pair in the third quadrant of the screen was also affected by that attack. The man and the woman were strong-arms for Los Mellizos, a drug cartel who had helped set up the alliance with the AUC. The brothers that ran the cartel were severely displeased and demanded the heads of the agents responsible.

Proteus offered a grim smile. That could certainly be arranged.

In the last quadrant was a black man who preferred to be called "The Shadow". The leader grimaced at the ostentatious nickname. Still, he couldn't deny the man had skills, which is why he was such a valuable member of Fulcrum.

Besides, he personally had adopted the code name "Proteus", which he was forced to admit didn't lack ego.

"Gentlemen," Proteus began. "Thank you for calling in. Let me remind you that while your voices are electronically masked to everyone on the call, please keep the details of any current operations or anything that might identify you out of the conversation. It will be better if the others do not know who you are."

"This better be important, Proteus," Moreno said. "There are more critical things we should be doing; I don't have time for this."

The pleasantness evaporated from Proteus' demeanor at the inferred rebuke. In a deceptively quiet tone, he responded, "You will have time for what I say you have time for."

Moreno's eyes flashed. Sullenly, the man bit back his anger and retreated into silence.

Looking at all four quadrants in turn, Proteus continued, "We have had several problems over the past couple of months. Two of the key points of our operations have been threatened, and we need to recover a few key elements. That's why I've gathered you here today. If we do not recover from these setbacks, everything else that we've worked for may be for nothing." He stayed silent for a moment, letting the gravity of the situation sink in. He found the lack of response gratifying.

"First, one of our key sources of information was captured." Proteus hit a key on his laptop, and a picture of Andon Minh popped up on the screen. "Mr. Minh was noticed due to his dealings with DCI Enterprises, a company unrelated to any of our operations. However, he was captured at an inopportune time, as he carried with him a very important package: coded data that we require, code-named 'Chameleon'. We believe this data, along with the rest of Mr. Minh's intelligence, was captured and moved to a CIA facility in metropolitan Los Angeles. We need that package, gentlemen."

"Next, Cell 1597, led by a foreign agent code-named Black Lightning, was activated and tasked with breaking into a key American government computer, among other things. As far as we know, the ordered penetration never occurred. The entire cell was taken down in the process, with the exception of one agent, code named Lizzie." He stopped to press another key, putting a picture of Lizzie up on the screen. "Here, we need three things: verification of whether the target computer was penetrated, the location of Lizzie, and a pair of boots."

Jennings spoke up. "I'm sorry: my transmission must have somehow been garbled. I could have sworn you said, 'a pair of boots'."

"That's right. There is a vial of liquid hidden in the false heel of each boot. And, just so you know," Proteus held up an oddly-shaped key with a long shaft and tiny teeth at the end, "without this key, any attempt to retrieve or examine the vials will crush them … and you will not like what happens if the vials break."

"What about Black Lightning?" The Shadow asked.

Proteus grunted. "Let him rot. I've read the mission report leading to his capture. The discovery of his cell was unfortunate, but he screwed up far too many times. We've got better things to do than to rescue an incompetent Venezuelan agent."

The Shadow's silence indicated assent, if not agreement.

"We also lost an ally," Proteus nodded to the Los Mellizos contingent, "when Jaime Veron was captured a couple of days ago. While the drugs and the money will be impossible to reclaim…"

One of the Los Mellizos henchmen raised his voice. "What?! Veron had fifteen million dollars of cash and merchandise. You're just going to let that go?"

Proteus leaned forward, a pained expression on his face. "Do you really think the DEA isn't hoping you'll pull some stupid stunt to try to retrieve it? Why do you think everything is still at Veron's house?"

"Because they are fools. They are government agents, filling out paperwork and leaving themselves vulnerable in the process."

"They left bait in the trap, hoping that they'll snare additional men from your cartel. Twenty agents with serious firepower are hidden around the property, just praying somebody like you will try something."

Proteus watched as the man processed the information. The henchman slammed the table in frustration. "Don't worry," Proteus reassured the man. "You'll have an opportunity to make some of the money back … and get your revenge."

Both the man and the woman looked unconvinced, but chose to hear things out. Proteus nodded approvingly.

"We cannot get the money or the cocaine. What we can get is Veron's PDA. Details of his rendezvous schedules with the other Fulcrum cells in California are unknown, but there's little doubt that he stored them on that damn organizer. If those schedules are found, the other cells will be found."

Jennings nodded strongly in agreement as Proteus continued. "We were able to regain contact with one cell," he nodded subtly at The Shadow, "but Veron altered the schedule with the other two cells, and protocol will keep them from surfacing to contact us until two more meetings are missed. That means that even if those cells aren't discovered, they will essentially be inactive for up to four weeks, which we simply do not have. They have work to do, and soon."

"Finally," Proteus continued, "while transporting a key person of interest, one of our best operatives, code-named Tommy, was captured. We are desperately trying to ascertain his whereabouts, as well as the location of Bryce Larkin, a CIA agent who has since vanished."

"Enough," the second Los Mellizos henchman said in a feminine, accented voice. "We care nothing for the integrity of Fulcrum's operations. Why do you waste our time?"

With a patient expression, Proteus looked at the man and said, "Because we will pay one hundred thousand dollars apiece for return the book or the pair of boots. Verify whether the government computer was compromised or the location of Lizzie, or return Veron's PDA, and we will pay you five hundred thousand dollars. Verify the location of Tommy, and we will pay you one million dollars."

"Chump change," the woman sniffed.

"Three agents: Sarah Walker, John Casey, and Chuck Bartowski were involved in some or all of the attacks upon our operations. Capture them, and we will pay you two million dollars. Capture Agent Bryce Larkin, and we will pay you five million dollars."

"Five million dollars would be nice, but we do not care about these items or these agents!"

"Oh, I think you do. You see, Sarah Walker and Bryce Larkin are the agents who attacked the AUC campsite three days ago."

The surprise, and the hatred, was evident to Proteus on the faces of both the Los Mellizos henchmen. "Interested now?" he asked with a malevolent grin.


	2. A Girlfriend, a Boss, and a Confidante

**Scene V –Buy More Plaza Parking Lot**

Chuck found his stomach was turning slightly as he crossed the parking lot.

It wasn't unusual for Chuck's stomach to do flip-flops as he headed for the Weinerlicious. The food was unappetizing enough before Sarah turned her questionable cooking skills on it; the company was the only reason he ate there. Today, however, anticipation of the food wasn't causing the upset stomach. He was just plain nervous.

He stood in front of the door for a moment before he built up enough courage to head inside. After drying his hands on his pants, he pushed the door open. A bell cheerily announced his arrival.

Behind the counter stood Sarah, resplendent in her ridiculous red-and-white Weinerlicious uniform and pigtails. She smiled hospitably at the customer at the counter as she finished filling his order. Her smile became far more personal as she noticed Chuck.

He couldn't help but return that smile. The butterflies in his stomach redoubled their efforts.

When Sarah finished helping her customer, she called over her shoulder, "I'm taking lunch." She ducked under the counter and grabbed a tray of food she had prepared for the two of them.

An obviously disapproving Scooter looked like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, he took over at the counter for the next customer. "Guten tag, un wilkommen a Weinerlicious," he said in a slightly nasal voice. The next customer started placing his order in an annoyed tone.

Sarah approached Chuck; the slightest hint of nervousness crossed her delicate features. He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but he was unsure how successful he was – he felt pretty nervous himself.

Sarah set the tray on a nearby table and turned to face him. Her eyes focused on him, she suddenly seemed to find her confidence. She placed her hands against the top of his chest as she gave him a slow, gentle kiss in greeting.

His eyes closed as he tipped his head to the side, losing himself in her. He placed his hands on her waist, as much to steady himself as to hold her. It seemed so unreal to have her here, kissing him, without a shred of doubt that the kiss was for real.

Only when the two separated did Chuck realize that Sarah had popped onto her toes; she dropped back down to the floor. "Hi," she said with an impish grin and twinkling eyes.

Despite his struggles to breathe, Chuck somehow found the air to speak. "You know, I could so get used to that."

"Well, you'd better," Sarah answered. "I plan to make that something of a habit." She playfully tugged his tie.

"I gotta say I like the sound of that."

Chuck basked in the glow of Sarah's smile, feeling like they were the only two people in the world. After a long but comfortable silence, Sarah turned to pick up the tray of food. "Grab some napkins?" she asked as she headed outside. Chuck obliged, stopping off at a kiosk to grab napkins and condiments before following Sarah outside to the deserted patio. He tried to hurry and catch up with her so he could pull out her chair.

"Chuck, don't," Sarah said a bit sharply as she set the tray on the table. Chuck froze; the way she spoke to him stung a little.

She looked at him with a casual and slightly cool expression; the affection was gone from her face. "Believe me, I appreciate the thought. I really do. However, we need to keep things hidden from Casey, so we'll need to fight our instincts at times." She sat down in the chair on the far side of the table. When he stood motionless for a moment, she motioned for him to sit.

A bit taken aback, Chuck was slow to sit down. Sarah offered him a more friendly expression as she pulled a wrapper off a hot dog. "I know this isn't going to be easy for you, Chuck. You wear your emotions on your sleeve, and that's one of the things that I like about you. However, we simply can't let Casey know what's going on, so we have to be careful to keep things under wraps." She took a deep breath before she continued. "We need to set up some rules."

Starting to understand that Sarah wasn't really unhappy with him, Chuck relaxed a bit. He unwrapped a hot dog of his own and started adding condiments. "Rules? Like what?"

"The first, and most important, is that neither of us takes it personally when one of us pushes the other away. I had to do that: when we sit out here, Casey can see us from the Buy More. Visual cues of any kind have to be minimized, so I had to push you away."

"OK, that sounds simple enough."

"It might sound simple, but doing that day after day gets tough. Take right now: I want nothing more than to hold your hand on the table, but I have to fight the urge. That would be a dead giveaway to Casey."

At that, Chuck felt a tangle of emotions: he was touched that she wanted to hold his hand and disappointed that he couldn't.

After swallowing a bite, she continued, "Take the way I spoke to you. I love that you wanted to pull out my chair for me, but again, as soon as Casey sees that, he's onto us. I'm sorry about that, by the way."

Chuck nodded acknowledgment to the apology. "Why couldn't that just be part of our cover?"

"I suppose you could argue that, but Casey gets suspicious in a hurry. It's just best not to push those limits. By keeping a tight rein on things, we keep him from having reason to get suspicious and watch us too closely."

Chuck was feeling a bit down about the whole thing. Things had changed, but he still was going to be forced to keep his feelings in check. His mind started looking for other solutions, hopeful that their relationship could remain somewhat normal. "So, what if we went somewhere else for lunch?"

She smiled. "We can do that … but not too often. That would be a change in our routine and would arouse suspicion."

"You sound so clinical about all of this."

"Force of habit, believe me."

Chuck wiped a bit of mustard from his mouth. "OK, so we need to be careful where Casey can see us."

"It's not just being careful; it's acting in a believable way. If you were suddenly cold to me in front of Casey all the time, he would try to find out why. Then we would need to come up with a reason that you were being cold to me. Plus, we would need to find a way to give him that reason without making it too easy for him to find out; otherwise, he would get suspicious about that."

"OK, my head's starting to spin."

She gave his a conciliatory look. "I understand." She frowned as she thought for a minute. "Look, being undercover is just about telling a believable story that you want to others to believe. If most of the pieces match and you don't give anyone reason to look too carefully at it, you're going to be fine."

"So we tell Casey the story that we're not dating."

"More specifically, that things are the way they were: we have feelings for each other that we're fighting. That way, if either one of us slips, we'll have a bit of leeway."

Chuck smiled knowingly. "You mean, if I slip."

"Oh, don't sell yourself short. I could just as easily slip, especially when you smile at me the way you do."

Of course, there was nothing for Chuck to do but smile at the compliment.

Sarah allowed herself to look at him for a moment, then dragged her eyes away and focused on pushing her French fries around. "You're really going to need to stop that, Chuck. At least, until we're somewhere that I can do something about it." She turned her face down towards her plate, but still managed to give him a shy smile as she looked up at him through her eyelashes.

Chuck, facing away from the Buy More, had no reason to keep his smile from growing even bigger.

**Scene VI – Buy More**

After lunch, Chuck floated back to the Buy More. He hadn't been quite sure what to expect on his first pseudo-date with Sarah; part of him was afraid that things would be nervous and awkward. Neither he nor Sarah qualified as an expert on relationships, and part of him feared that would be a big problem now that they were dating.

So far, that wasn't the case. Despite a discussion of the various "rules" that Sarah was insisting upon, the lunch had been fun. Conversation flowed smoothly, and there was enough flirting to set his heart racing a couple of times. Best of all, he made her giggle three different times. Although she was quick to hide her face each time in case Casey was watching, the sound alone was music to his ears.

Entering the store, Chuck was distracted by the echoes of Sarah's laughter, so when he stopped to tidy up some items on a store display, Morgan was able to sneak up behind him. In a sing-song voice, the bearded man quietly said, "They're getting clo-ser."

Chuck started, both from how close Morgan had gotten and the words of warning. He continued towards the Nerd Herd desk, Morgan at his side. "Wait, what? Who's getting closer?"

"They are, Chuck. And they are dangerous."

"Morgan, what are you talking about?"

As they arrived at the Nerd Herd desk, Morgan pointed across the store. Three coldly beautiful women wearing matching dark red polo shirts and form-fitting, knee-length khaki skirts were talking with one of the salespeople. The green-shirted young man looked like he desperately wished a hole in the earth would suddenly open up and swallow him.

"Maroon shirts," Chuck breathed. "I thought they were just a part of the Buy More mythology."

"I know, Chuck. Look at them," he said, shaking his head. "So aloof, so unattainable … three magnificent harpies sent to lure us to our deaths using their dulcet songs, beguiling charms, and tight buns."

"First of all, Morgan, sirens, not harpies, lure men to their death using their songs … and the only place you'll be lured is a Buy More sexual harassment seminar if you keep talking about their buns."

"Chuck, please … keep it clean. I was talking about their hair." All three ladies, one blonde, one brunette, and one redhead, had their hair tautly pulled back into neat little knobs on the backs of their heads. "Although now that you mention it..."

"Morgan…"

Morgan didn't notice. He continued to stare at them; he mused, "I wonder why they're here."

Chuck thought he knew. Maroon shirts were Buy More auditors. Despite the high sales totals generated by Lester's brain child, the Black Valentine's Day sale, Chuck suspected their presence didn't bode well for how the store was doing overall.

As if sensing the conversation about them, the three women looked over at the Nerd Herd desk. Deciding they were finished sinking their claws into the terrified green shirt, the brunette dismissed him with a backhanded flip of a hand. He gratefully scurried away.

The three maroon shirts crossed the store toward Chuck and Morgan with long, confident strides. Morgan's eyes slowly widened as his jaw slackened. "So beautiful … they're like three naughty librarians coming to punish us for an overdue book."

Chuck stared at his friend for a moment, utterly dumbfounded. He quickly refocused on the approaching auditors.

The three adopted confident stances, side-by-side, about five feet in front of the two men. The redhead eyed Morgan briefly up and down, and with a sniff said, "You. Green shirt. Vanish."

"Your wish, milady." Morgan scooted away after a flourish of a hand and a poor imitation of a bow. The redhead rolled her eyes.

The blonde woman checked Chuck's badge against her clipboard. "Mr. Bartowski," she said, her finger identifying his entry on the payroll sheet. "Glad to see a member of the Nerd Herd somewhere near his station."

"Ah ha!" Chuck laughed awkwardly. "Just finished my regulation thirty-minute lunch break, ma'am."

"Uh huh," the blonde said skeptically. "And where were the other Nerd Herders?"

Chuck walked around to the back of the desk and, with a bit of aplomb, yanked a clipboard out of its holster on the desk and produced it for the woman. Without looking at it, he started reciting the jobs. "Lester Patel had a Mac system install at 6405 Mockingbird Lane scheduled to begin at 10:30, after which he was proceeding to AlphaGraphics for a problem they are having with their software. Jeff Barnes spent the morning at a corporate client resolving a print driver issue, but that one is turning out to be a bit thorny, so he's spending a little extra time there. Meanwhile, Anna Wu should be reporting for duty, right about…" Chuck made a show of checking his watch.

"Hi, Chuck," Anna said as she joined him behind the desk. She sat down in her chair and got right to work.

"…well, right about now," Chuck finished with a friendly but slightly smug grin.

Deprived of an opportunity to go after Chuck again, the blonde adopted an irritated expression. The redhead decided to jump in on the act. "I'll need to see your work logs for the past six weeks and your employee expense reports for the past month."

Chuck opened a drawer at his feet, pulling out two manila file folders and a red one. "Here are eight weeks of work logs, and the red folder contains the past month's expense reports."

The brunette woman eyed the other two with a knowing grin. The other women smiled back at her; Chuck could feel the gotcha question coming.

The brunette said, "I'll need to see your K26R requisition sheet for yesterday's activities."

"Well, I can't give you that," Chuck said with a shrug.

She crossed her arms triumphantly. "And why not?"

"Well, it was submitted yesterday for expedited equipment restocking per the Buy More company policy, as Nerd Herd deliveries crested the 10,000 threshold. However…" He bent down and flipped through the folders in a different drawer. He snagged a white piece of paper and stood back up, handing the paper to the surprised brunette. Chuck continued, "…I can give you the photocopy of the form I put into the file system as a placeholder until the corporate office returns the yellow copy of the form, probably in three to five business days."

Hesitantly taking the photocopy, she stammered, "Well, that last part certainly isn't customer policy."

The other two women stared at her in disbelief; the brunette flushed when she realized just how incredibly weak her protest was. "OK, fine." As if the words pained her, she added, "Nice work, Mr. Bartowski."

Chuck just picked up his coffee mug and tipped it towards the woman in acknowledgment before taking a sip. He nearly spit out the coffee when the brunette's expression started shifting towards something akin to hunger as she assessed him.

Big Mike, noticing the disconcerted looks on the auditors' faces, came lumbering across the store, arms pumping and face angry. "Bartowski! What didn't you get done?!" Turning to the women, he said, "I apologize for my employee. Say the word and he's outta here. He's one of the worst…"

"He passed with flying colors, Mr. Turner," the redhead informed him.

"He's one of the best employees we have. A credit to the Buy More brand. Wish we had ten more just like him."

The three women started walking, surrounding and starting to circle Big Mike. He eyed them warily; a bit of fear came to his eyes.

The blonde said, "Unfortunately, Mr. Turner, he is the only person to pass our audit."

"Nobody else has even come close to passing," the redhead added.

Big Mike's eyes darted to each of the women in turn as they passed in front of him. "Well, we certainly have got a few bad apples here, but for the most part…"

The brunette laughed. "A few bad apples?!"

The redhead said, "We've only seen one decent employee in the entire store."

The blonde added, "And we are not looking at him right now."

The brunette said, "Besides, we know that apples, especially the bad ones, don't fall very far from the tree."

The ladies kept circling. Big Mike's fear grew. "Wait, what are you saying?"

"What are we saying?" the redhead parroted him mockingly.

"We are not happy," the blond said.

"Not happy at all," the brunette said.

"I'm thinking our report back to headquarters is not going to reflect well on you," the redhead said.

Big Mike blurted, "Wait a minute. You can't blame me for this."

"Why not?"

"You're the manager."

"Your employees are incompetent."

"Your records are a mess."

"Your costs are through the roof."

"Your sales are abysmal."

"It's not looking good, Mr. Turner."

"How can things have gotten this bad?"

"What is it that you do here?"

"Give me one good reason we should keep you."

"One good reason."

"One good reason."

For once in his life, Big Mike was utterly speechless. He just stared at the circling women as if he knew what was happening and simply saw no escape. His lower lip quivered and he was perspiring heavily; he actually looked as though he might start whimpering.

Chuck sighed. For some reason, he couldn't let maroon shirts have Big Mike. _I'm probably going to regret this_, he thought, but he did it anyway.

"Wait," he said reluctantly. Four heads turned in his direction. "Surely you aren't going to file a report without completing a comprehensive audit, as well as an EAE. Isn't that standard policy, per the January memo from headquarters?"

The brunette seemed even more turned on by Chuck's knowledge of the latest company missives. However, the other two women glared at Chuck. The blond said, "Do you really think the employees here can pass the EAE?"

Chuck didn't. Big Mike was more interested in tabloids than training manuals; all but a handful of the most motivated green shirts were woefully under trained. However, it was Big Mike's only hope.

He gave the only answer he could. "I know my guys are ready."

The brunette eyed him up and down. "I bet they are," she said coquettishly.

If Chuck had coffee in his mouth, he definitely would have spit it out that time.

Big Mike hastily added, "The green shirts are ready."

The three women turned their attention back to the manager. "They'd better be," the redhead said.

"Your job depends upon it," said the brunette to Big Mike. She shot Chuck a final seductive look as the three women turned around and walked toward the front of the store.

Chuck turned to face his boss, who was still staring after the three maroon shirts. Employees scattered as the women walked out the front of the store.

Chuck said, "Well, that might have been one of the most uncomfortable moments in my life. You?"

Big Mike was starting to calm down. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Definitely. Thanks. You bought us a little time. I owe you one."

"No problem."

"Just one question, Chuck."

"Yes?"

"What's an EAE?"

Chuck stared at his boss. If Big Mike didn't know what an Employee Assessment Exam was, there was no way the green shirts would ever pass it.

**Scene VII – Casa Bartowski, Chuck's Room**

"Cut me, Chuck!" Morgan begged, sitting on a low chair, his face contorted with pain as he tried to catch his breath.

"Morgan, you can't go back in there," Chuck said, kneeling to the side of his friend. "It's a bloodbath! Throw in the towel."

The bearded man brought his eyes level with Chuck's. "Chuck, you gotta cut me. I can take this guy!"

"I really don't think you can, but here goes." Chuck took a safety pin and sterilized it with a match. He grabbed a hold of Morgan's right hand and popped a blister on his friend's gaming thumb.

Morgan screamed as if he was being tortured.

"You wimp," Chuck said.

Morgan made a big show of flexing his hand and shaking off the pain. "Patch me, Chuck. I'm gonna show this guy how we do things Echo Park style."

Chuck wrapped adhesive tape over the wound; the two bumped fists. "Take it to him, brother." Morgan re-entered the Call of Duty arena to face the foe that had defeated him four straight times, three by shutout. Chuck sat back to watch the predictable carnage.

This result was no different: Morgan was skunked again in a matter of minutes. He threw the controller to the ground in disgust. "Who the hell is this guy, Chuck? Where did you find him?"

Chuck forced an innocent expression to his face and shrugged. "Just a guy I met randomly."

"Well, he's one hell of a player. If we ever form a clan, we need to recruit him." Morgan checked his watch. "Oh, guess the pizza should be ready. I'll run out and grab it."

As his friend left the room, Chuck assumed Morgan's seat and entered the arena under his own character name. "Cash on the table," Chuck shouted.

"Got it." A few moments later the front door slammed.

Chuck put down the controller and grabbed the keyboard. He typed, "Clear."

His opponent, "Bulletpr00f9h0st" with the "Bull" colored red, responded on screen a few seconds later. "Hey, man, how are things?"

"Good. The better question is how R U?"

"I can't thank you enough. This gig is the best. The things I get to do…"

Chuck smiled. It was good to hear that Cush was happy.

Jeremy Cushman was a computer genius Chuck had met on a previous mission. With the man's help, the team had tracked down and captured a Fulcrum cell. In the little time that the two worked together, they had become fast friends.

After the mission was over, Director Graham and General Beckman had been ready to kill him for knowing a single IP address, one Chuck had used to flash on the CIA core computer network. Chuck had convinced the CIA to take Cush on as a computer specialist to utilize his immense talents.

He was doubly happy to hear things were going well: Jeremy Cushman was a good guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. More importantly, if the DoD was ready to kill the guy for what he knew, Chuck had no chance of ever getting back to a normal life given what was inside his head.

"You clearly don't have any problem 'sneaking out'." Cush was in a CIA bunker somewhere; Chuck had worried Cush wouldn't be able to find a way to communicate through the security. He should have known better than to underestimate Cush.

"Please, the first thing they set me up to test was the firewalls. I made them a deal: if I can tunnel out, they can't say two words if I play online games. I've taught them a bit of a lesson in humility – much like your friend."

Chuck laughed. He typed, "Yeah, I've never seen anyone pwn Morgan quite that badly."

"So tell me, do you ever see that blond agent any more?"

Chuck's grin only grew, despite the fact he wouldn't be seeing Sarah again that night. Casey was watching Chuck like a hawk, so the two had decided to be careful at first. Even though it was frustrating, it was far less frustrating than working side by side with Sarah believing nothing would ever happen between them.

It also helped to imagine how the evening's activities would torment Casey. If the NSA agent was going to watch Chuck this closely, Chuck was going to make it as painful as possible for the agent by involving Morgan. Getting to hang with Cush, so to speak, was an added bonus.

After considering what he wanted to say for a moment, Chuck started typing, "As a matter of fact…" His fingers danced across the keyboard as he talked and talked about Sarah.

A couple minutes later, Cush's only response was "NFW!"

Chuck smiled. It felt good to be able to tell somebody the truth about Sarah and him. It almost made up for the fact that their situation kept them apart yet again.

Almost.

**Scene VIII – Los Angeles, Small Airport**

The Los Mellizos henchmen climbed down the stairs of a private Lear jet onto the tarmac. They were dressed to appear as a wealthy married couple on vacation, down to the luggage that the pilot pulled out of the plane for them.

The man wore a loose-fitting flowered shirt that hung over his losee-fitting beige pants. A white hat crowned his head. The woman wore a black shirt and a flowing pair of white pants. The two chatted amiably as the pilot transported their luggage to an idling black sedan with tinted windows.

When the transfer was complete, the man tipped the pilot with a wad of bills and a smile of thanks. The two climbed into the back of the sedan, A third person, a man in his late-twenties with close-cropped blond hair wearing a nicely tailored dark suit, was sitting on the opposite side of the roomy back seat. The divider separating the front and back seats was up, providing the three with absolute privacy.

As the car drove to the airport exit, the blond-haired man handed both of the henchmen manila envelopes filled with a sheaf of papers and a series of pictures. He began speaking without preamble.

"The packets I've given you contain all the information we have on Sarah Walker, John Casey and Chuck Bartowski. We were unable to find local addresses on any of them."

"Then how are we supposed to be able to find them?" the woman growled.

The blond-haired man smiled professionally. "The first page in your packet explains all of that. Be at the specified address no later than noon tomorrow. You will be able to assume surveillance at that point."

He pounded the divider, and the driver pulled the car over to the side of the road. As he started to climb out, the other henchman reached across and grabbed the blond-haired man's arm. He eyed the henchman with a deceptively cool stare.

The henchman said, "Just make sure that when the time comes, your men stay out of the way. Sarah Walker is ours."

The blond-haired man nodded. The henchman released his grip, and the man climbed out of the car, shutting the door behind him.

As he watched the sedan drove away, the man shook his head. He didn't know exactly what Agent Walker did to those two, but he did not envy her if she fell into the hands of the Los Mellizos henchmen.


	3. The Scavenger Hunt Begins

_An overdue shout-out to Go-Chuck-Go for her beta help on the last two chapters. Of course, she didn't get a chance to read this chapter, so all the blame goes my way for this one..._

* * *

**Scene IX – Buy More**

Chuck was none too happy to be at the Buy More on Saturday morning. He was supposed to have both weekend days off, but Big Mike had called an emergency meeting and every employee was required to be there.

The entire Buy More contingent stood in a long line in front of the video wall. Big Mike was an agitated mix of anger and anxiety as he addressed the assembly.

"People, there are rare moments in our lives when opportunities for greatness are thrust upon us. This is one of those moments."

Chuck managed to keep a straight face. Apparently Big Mike had brought his shovel today.

"As many of you are aware, three auditors are here to check up on our store. They are not happy with our recent performance. Although I have repeatedly expressed the opinion that our sales slump is just the normal post-Christmas slowdown, they are not convinced."

Big Mike started strolling down the line of employees.

"Now, I have told the Buy More brass that I would put the employees of this store up against the employees of any other Buy More anywhere." He stopped walking, eyeing a green-shirted woman. She smiled at the compliment.

His face took on a frown when he saw her smile; he turned to face her. "Unfortunately, they decided to call my bluff." Her smile quickly vanished.

Big Mike started walking again. "The auditors will be around the store today and tomorrow. When they speak to you, you are to be polite, respectful, and somehow find a way to make a good impression." He turned to glare at the next employee, who happened to be Morgan. Chuck's friend gave an obsequious little smile to Big Mike, who was clearly unimpressed. The manager continued pacing down the inspection line.

"In your free time – which I know is ample because I see you slackers standing around all day – I expect each of you to study these binders." He pointed to several stacks of binders on a folding table nearby. "They contain the Buy More rules and regulations, along with product sheets on the various goods and services this store sells.

"On Monday, a random selection of employees will be asked to take the Employee Assessment Exam. You will pass this test, or there will be hell to pay." His pace unconsciously increased as he grew more agitated. "Do I make myself clear?!"

Big Mike wheeled on the next employee – and found himself staring at Casey's chest. He looked up at the tall man, who looked down on his boss. "Crystal clear, sir," he said, obviously unintimidated.

Chuck leaned forward and looked up and down the line of employees. Big Mike's speech wasn't having its desired effect; in fact, it was clear the majority of the employees could care less. "Um, Big Mike?"

Consumed with trying, and failing, to intimidate Casey, Big Mike didn't even turn his head. "What?!"

"Maybe you'd like to tell the employees what you did for them – you know, to show you're a nice guy."

"Ah, right." Big Mike's demeanor totally changed, becoming far too nice. "To show my appreciation for everyone's efforts over the next three days, there are donuts in the break room. By all means…"

A number of the Buy More employees took off for the break room. Morgan, Jeff and Lester took the lead as the group reached the door to the back hallway. Chuck blinked; he didn't think those three could move nearly that fast.

"…help … yourselves." Big Mike stared in disbelief after the mob as they disappeared. The remaining employees stared as well.

After a long moment, Casey asked, "So, are we dismissed?"

"I guess so," said Big Mike, still a bit shell-shocked. Most of the rest of the crowd rushed towards the break room, leaving only Chuck and Casey with Big Mike.

"Nice control over your troops," Casey snickered as he walked away.

Big Mike was suddenly himself again. "Watch it, Casey!" he screamed after the departing man.

* * *

Buy More employees were sprinting down the back hallway for the break room. Somehow, Jeff, Morgan and Lester had a few steps on the rest of the employees.

As they tried to round the corner, Lester gave Morgan a strong shove; the shove carried him into the wall as he gave a cry of protest. He bounced off, managing to grab the back of Jeff's untucked shirt to regain his momentum and then slingshot himself around the pair. Jeff and Lester started pushing each other as they tried to catch up.

Behind them, a horde of Buy More employees came thundering down the hall.

Morgan burst through the break room door a few steps ahead of Jeff and Lester. He stopped when he saw the break room table. It was covered with boxes from Echo Park Donut.

Jeff and Lester came up behind him.

"The mother lode," Lester breathed.

"All that's missing is the Jack Daniels for dunking," added Jeff. Morgan and Lester gave Jeff a look. "What?"

Hearing the footsteps of the other Buy More employees closing in, the three sprang forward, each grabbing the nearest box.

Morgan immediately knew something was wrong; the box was too light. He opened his. "Hey, mine's empty!"

Lester was staring in disbelief into his opened box. "Mine too!"

"No! It can't be!"

Jeff turned his box upside down over his head; he unsuccessfully tried to catch some of the few glazed crumbs that dropped from the box with his mouth.

They looked at each other, and started sifting through the boxes, trying to find a box that still had donuts. In a second, they realized the truth. The boxes were all empty.

The other employees were streaming into the room, grabbing boxes. It was pure chaos: frustrated employees giving cries of protest as colorful orphaned sprinkles rained to the ground from upended boxes.

"Missing something?"

The employees turned to seek the source of the voice. The three auditors stood in a corner to the side of the door, clad in their maroon shirts, each with a donut in their hands.

"Sorry, guys," said the blond.

"Looks like we got here first," added the redhead.

In unison, the three each shoved their donut into their mouths, hardly seeming to chew as they swallowed the sweet treats.

Jeff said, "So beautiful…"

Morgan shuddered. "C'mon, man, that was grotesque."

"What? Reminds me of how my mom would eat cake on my birthday."

"Your mom must be a fascinating woman," Lester said.

"Oh, she is," Jeff said, still staring longingly as the women swallowed their donuts.

After the display of gluttony, it was all the odder to see the women dab their mouths daintily with cheap brown napkins.

"Why would you do that?" moaned Morgan. "Why would you take all the donuts?"

The brunette stared him down. "Why? I'll tell you way. Crullers are for closers only."

Lester laughed. The redhead looked at him. "You think we're messing with you?"

Lester's smile fled. He shook his head.

The blond said, "We are not messing with you." She stared at the other employees, who just stared blankly back.

The auditors started speaking in rotation again, starting with the redhead. "People out there are just begging to give you their money. Warranties. Damage insurance. Upsales."

"From what I can tell, you people can barely close the store, let alone close a sale."

"Learn how a Buy More is run."

"Learn how to sell our products."

"Then you can have donuts," the brunette finished acerbically.

Silence was heavy in the air; the employees stood motionless, stunned by the three-headed tongue-lashing they had just received.

Satisfied with their work, the three women dropped the napkins into the trash as they paraded out of the room.

As the women strode lockstep down the hall, their icy smiles became smug as they heard the people in the break room start shouting in anger.

* * *

After watching the stampede toward the break room, Chuck started heading towards the front of the store. Big Mike intercepted him by the folding table, still completely full of binders.

"Thanks for the advice about the donuts, Chuck. Seems like the idea was a hit."

"Well, it never hurts to provide a little positive incentive for the employees."

"I'm still not convinced that's true, but it looks like you were right this time. Now, you will be hanging around here this weekend to help train the riffraff, right?"

"Sorry, Big Mike. I've got plans."

"Cancel them!"

Chuck shrugged. "Afraid I can't. I'll be here on Monday, and my Herders are completely ready for the exam. The salespeople are all yours." There was no way Chuck was canceling any kinds of plans for the weekend – not when those plans involved him and Sarah finally getting some time alone.

"Now don't make me invoke MA2425 on you."

Chuck gave an impressed smile. "MA2425. Buy More Managerial Authority to call in employees despite previously approved time off. Very good, Big Mike. Very good."

Big Mike smiled in triumph.

"Just one problem."

Big Mike's smile vanished. "What's that?"

"In order to invoke MA2425, two of three criteria must be satisfied. There must be a situation that could critically affect the performance of a store."

"Which there is."

"The employee must not be due overtime pay as a result of being called in, and I've worked my 40 hours this week already."

"So what's the third criterion?"

Chuck walked up to Big Mike and put a hand on his shoulder. "If I were an assistant manager, you could call me in." He took his hand away and shrugged. "But I'm not."

Big Mike looked stunned. An idea occurred to him. He smiled, extended his hand, and said, "Congratulations, Charles Bartowski. You're now assistant manager. You've earned it."

Chuck shook his head. "They may still have my application on file, but somebody from headquarters has to come down and interview me and some alternate candidates before I can be promoted. And I know you know that."

The boss was at a loss for words.

"Techically, I'm violating company policy by being here in any type of formal work capacity, so I'm going to leave."

"VERY good, Mr. Bartowski," said the blond auditor.

The two men turned to look. The three maroon shirts stood side-by-side, arms crossed, observing the conversation.

"I'm sure he is," said the brunette, biting the tip of her thumb and boring holes in Chuck with her smoky brown eyes.

Chuck tried to ignore the brunette. "H-how long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," said the redhead. "As you said, you're violating company policy by even being here, so you should go."

The brunette pouted prettily, which only disconcerted Chuck further. He decided the safest course of action was to depart, and depart quickly.

Behind him, the auditors closed on a very nervous Big Mike. The brunette went behind him to lean against the table, the blond actually sat on the low table, crossing one leg, and the redhead took a flanking position.

The blond picked up one of the binders and slapped it into Big Mike's gut. He grunted, grasping at the binder instinctively.

"Can you show me in the Buy More manual where store managers are allowed to field promote assistant managers?" the redhead asked.

Big Mike closed his eyes with a pained look.

**Scene X – Casa Bartowski**

"This … is gonna be awesome."

Devon, all grins and bravado as usual, pointed his fingers at the crowd gathered in the Casa Bartowski living room. The group cheered wildly at his declaration.

Twenty or so people had gathered for the annual scavenger hunt run by Devon and some of his frat brothers. The tradition had begun as a morally questionable fraternity event involving lots of beer and trespassing all over campus - sorority houses, rooftops, and offices of professors being favorite locations. After college, the hunt had evolved into a more mellow combination of intellectual and physical challenges, and the beer was only consumed at Saturday night party and the celebratory barbecue on Sunday.

Teams, mostly couples, stood together. Morgan and Anna, Jeff and Lester, and Chuck and Sarah stood in pairs towards the back of the room, while Ellie stood near Devon.

"Quick reminder of how this all works," Devon said. "My boy Griff here," Devon put his arm around his friend, "worked overtime to stash cards with letters on them all around the city. He will give us lists of clues: half the clues will be given out now; the other half will be given out tomorrow. Follow the clues to get the letters.

"Sometimes finding the right location is all you need to get the letter; in other cases, a physical challenge is required. Today's goal is to get as many letters as possible off the first list and return here by 7 pm.

"Tomorrow, the time you'll get to leave with the second list will depend on the number of letters you collect. The team with the most letters will leave first, followed by the team with the second-most letters, etc. Tie-breaker, if necessary, will be the arrival time here tonight.

"There will be a ten-minute gap between departures tomorrow. In addition, there will be a penalty for each minute past 7 pm that passes before you get back here. You get back at 7:15, that's fifteen minutes extra penalty time tomorrow morning. Got it?"

Everybody in the room nodded.

"The letters spell out the location of the final goal. First team to get there wins the prize. The last-place team – or any team that cannot find the goal by 6:30 pm – gets a punishment chosen by the event organizer." Devon looked pointedly at Lester and Jeff.

"Well, maybe if my partner doesn't get plastered at the mid-event party," Lester said, looking angrily at Jeff, "we won't be suffering the punishment this year."

Chuck grinned. "Aw, c'mon. I know you enjoyed dressing up in 70s outfits and trying to pick up women using commercial slogans."

Sarah looked at Chuck in disbelief. "What?!"

"Yeah, they had to spend an hour standing at a busy intersection wearing bell bottoms, platform shoes and these hideous shirts that Devon picked up from a swap shop. They took turns trying to pick up passing women by using variations on commercial taglines: 'I take a licking and keep on ticking', 'Just do me', 'I melt in your mouth, not in your hands', 'I'm good to the last drop', 'I keep going and going and going…'"

"That last one got us five face slaps," Lester said.

"And two phone numbers," Jeff added.

Lester gritted his teeth. "Both from men."

Devon continued, "Now, the good news is that the defending champions, Chuck and Ellie Bartowski, who absolutely smoked everybody else last year…"

"Yeah, Ellie was sleeping with the guy who organized the thing," one of Devon's frat brothers yelled out. "I still say it was fixed." Everyone laughed. Last year, it had been Devon's turn to run the scavenger hunt rather than participate. Ellie and Chuck had blown through the clues in record time, arriving at the finish over two hours before the second-place team.

Devon continued, "The bad news is that with the future Mrs. Devon Woodcomb by my side … you guys are going down. It's gonna be ugly."

The crowd erupted into hoots and hollers. Sarah scanned the room, a wondrous smile on her face. She looked back to Chuck as he taunted his future brother-in-law, and her smile only grew. She joined in the jeering as well.

After the boisterous masses had their say, Devon held his hands up in the air. "All right, all right, we'll see who's at the finish line hoisting the prize. Griff, we ready?"

Griff nodded, fanning out sheets of paper in front of him. "We are ready." The crowd cheered. "Come grab your sheets, drive safely, and we'll see you back here by 7 pm tonight!"

Devon took advantage of his position near Griff, snagging a sheet. He grabbed Ellie's hand, and he and his laughing fiancé were running towards the front door before most people could start moving forward. Several mock cries of protest escaped Devon's frat buddies. A stampede of people rushed Griff, nearly knocking him down in their efforts to get a clue sheet. Sarah moved to get a sheet along with everyone else, but Chuck grabbed her by the arm. "Not yet," he whispered.

The two stood by watching the herd of people trying to navigate out of the front door. There was a fair bit of pushing and shoving, culminating with Anna knocking Lester off his feet and onto his backside. Morgan made a high-pitched "hoo-hoo" noise before taking off through the door after Anna, leaving Lester to scramble to his feet and make his way outside.

Chuck calmly walked over and took the last sheet from Griff. Unfolding a piece of paper from his back pocket, he motioned Sarah towards his room. "Gotta plan our attack. Help me with these clues. We'll figure out two or three of them and head towards the closest one. I'll try to solve the rest while you drive."

The two went into Chuck's room, where they used the web to help to solve three clues and mark down the locations on a printed map. Figuring out the location of the closest one, the two of them dashed out the door to Sarah's car, laughing and joking along the way.

In fact, the two were having such a good time that neither one of them noticed when a car halfway down the block pulled out to follow them.


	4. A Normal Life

**Scene XI – Los Angeles Streets**

Chuck gave Sarah some rough directions to their first destination, and then started pouring over the clue sheet. He gave Sarah a clue to consider while she drove; she bit her lip, her focus divided between driving and trying to solve the riddle.

She repeated the clue out loud, "'I'd call you an idiot if you can't get this clue, but I know it wouldn't hurt. However, these may break your bones and lead you to phones.' What a bunch of gibberish."

He frowned. "That last part reminds me of something. What may break your bones?"

"I can think of any number of things in my line of work. Jumping off a building, a strong kick to the leg, a …"

"Yeah, we might need to get you out of super-secret agent mode for a minute."

Chuck's comment about 'agent mode' caused her to reflexively glance in her rear-view mirror to catalog the traffic behind them. She had been so caught up with the scavenger hunt that she forgot that she was still technically protecting the Intersect.

That accomplished, she went back to the clue. "What may break my bones? Wait … sticks and stones. 'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.'

He smiled at her. "Nice. With the comment about calling you an idiot, that's gotta be it."

His smile had her slightly distracted; she forced herself to focus. "But what could that mean?"

"Well, there's a little dive pool bar down towards USC called 'Sticks and Stones'. It's an institution; been there forever."

"And if it's an old place, there must be pay phones there."

"Another one solved. Up high, partner," he said, presenting his palm. She obliged with a slightly awkward, if enthusiastic, high-five.

Again, she felt far too happy about being part of the scavenger hunt. She felt like her face had the biggest, dopiest grin that it ever had.

She didn't care. Her gaze locked with Chuck's longer than was technically safe for somebody driving a car.

Her defense mechanisms finally kicked back in; she pulled her eyes back to the road and shifted into agent mode. She glanced in the rear-view mirror and noticed a familiar car. "Chuck?"

"Yeah."

"We're being followed."

"What?! Who is it? Fulcrum?"

"Not exactly."

She took the next right turn, then took another immediate right into a strip mall. Chuck looked back; a beat-up old-style white VW Beetle tailed them into the parking lot.

"It's Jeff and Lester," she said in an annoyed tone. _Like I don't have enough to worry about when watching after Chuck_, she thought. She parked the car in an empty portion of the lot and hopped out.

Chuck hopped out as well, shocked – and at the same time not at all surprised. "Well, they said they had a new strategy this year."

"Yeah – cheating." She crossed her arms, still irritated.

The VW Beetle noisily pulled up alongside Chuck; Lester rolled the passenger-side window down. "Hey, guys. I, uh, see you solved the clue, too."

Chuck leaned on the car. "And which clue would that be?"

"C'mon, Chuck, it was so obvious," Jeff said.

"I'd be embarrassed for you if you didn't get it," Lester added.

"You're right. It was entirely obvious. Out of curiosity, which store did you guys think the clue was in?"

"Well, clearly you know, Chuck, since you found your way here," Lester said.

"Yeah, what kind of game are you playing?" Jeff said defensively.

"Humor me, Lester. Show me you weren't following us."

"Following you, what?" Lester shot a nervous look at his friend.

"I'm insulted," Jeff said.

Chuck stood leaning against the window, his expression communicating that he was going nowhere without an answer.

Lester desperately looked around the mall. "Fine, Chuck. It was the … book store?"

Chuck looked across the parking lot at the "Book Break", a privately owned shop. An idea came to his mind. "Well, I owe you guys an apology. For some reason, I thought you might have been cheating."

A look of relief came to Lester's face. He immediately went on the offensive. "While I'm hurt…"

"Very hurt," Jeff interjected.

"While I'm very hurt, Chuck, I'm glad to see you're a big enough man to admit you were wrong."

"Very wrong."

Chuck said, "I'm impressed you guys got the clue, though. Most people wouldn't have gotten the 'Book Break' from the language. I've got to assume you figured out that the letters are stashed in "The Idiot's Guide to Cell Phones".

Lester and Jeff stared down at their sheet, taking too long to locate the clue that Chuck and Sarah had just solved. "Of course! Idiot, from 'I'd call you an idiot'…" Jeff said.

Lester finished, "…and phones from 'lead you to phones'. So simple."

"Trivially simple."

"Embarrassingly easy."

Sarah covered her mouth and looked away, trying to conceal her smile. How Chuck managed to come up with the alternate explanation for the puzzle so quickly was beyond her … and she had to think on her feet for a living.

Chuck said, "I'm glad. Really. With puzzle-solving skills like that, no way you guys finish last this year. We'll be watching out for you guys."

It was all she could do to keep from laughing.

Lester looked around, obviously anxious to get the letter into his sweaty little hands. "Well … see you in the book store?"

"Not if we see you first," Chuck said, then broke into fake laughter.

Jeff and Lester started uncomfortable laughs of their own, which grew artificially louder. Chuck encouraged this by increasing the volume of his own laughs.

Jeff started the VW back up, and the pair took off across the parking lot, still laughing as they drove away. Chuck waved after the car, his smile becoming obviously fake as he muttered through his teeth, "What a pair of morons."

She shot a real smile at Chuck, which seemed to brighten his mood somewhat. The two got back into Sarah's Porsche and took off out of the parking lot for their real destination.

**Scene XII – Lucky Strike Lanes, Hollywood, CA**

"This is it?" Sarah asked, peering through the windshield. The sign read Lucky Strike Lanes, but it looked more like a night club than a bowling alley.

Chuck read the clue again. "'An Irish work stoppage or a fortuitous punch is the place; find George.' A 'lucky strike'. Now we just need to find George."

The two rushed inside, encountering a grumpy employee who was busy sweeping the floor of the entry way. He directed them to George where he stood working the main station, assigning lanes and handing out shoes.

"That seemed pretty easy," commented Sarah as the two jogged to the desk.

"Well, remember that there's sometimes a challenge involved."

The two were forced to wait in line behind an annoyed mother who was debating the value that her coupons had. Her three kids looked as nonplussed as their parents at the wait.

After a few minutes, the lady took her brood to the appointed lane, leaving behind a visibly relieved young man named George. "Can I help you?"

"Um, we're here as part of a scavenger hunt, and…"

"One of Griff's friends, huh?"

"That's right."

"OK, here's the deal. I've got an envelope full of the letters you want. Your group has the two lanes on the end reserved during the day today. Here are the rules to complete the challenge." He handed them a sheet and continued, "I'll need to verify your score sheet before I give you a letter. What size shoes do you need?"

They quickly had their shoes and jogged to find their designated lanes. The inside of the place was high-class all the way, with a richly appointed seating lounge overlooking the blue neon lighting of the lanes. At this hour of the day, the place was mostly empty; only a few lanes were busy.

As Sarah swapped shoes, Chuck read the rules out loud. "In order to get a letter, both of you need to bowl at least one full game on the set of lanes down at the end of the alley. If one of you can bowl a 125 and the other can hit two consecutive strikes in your first game, you get your letter. If not, you each have to bowl another game, where one of you has to break 110 while the other has to roll at least one strike. If you fail that, you each have to bowl a third game where you both must break 90. Fail that, and you don't get a letter."

"Sheesh, who wrote these rules?"

"Griff sells insurance. These rules probably seem simple to him." Chuck went back to reading from the sheet. "If other teams are waiting and you fail to complete the specified goals for a game, you must give up the lane and get back in line. Good luck!"

"When was the last time you bowled?" Sarah asked Chuck.

"Um, college. You?"

"I don't get to the bowling alley much in my line of work."

"I guess you wouldn't."

"Doesn't mean I'm not kicking your butt."

Chuck stared at her for a moment, studying the intensity radiating from her face. He noticed her stifling a grin, but there was a kernel of truth to what she was saying: she planned on winning.

He laughed. "Oh, really?" he said. "Because I figured that you brought up the whole job thing so you'll have an excuse when I bring the thunder and tear you asunder."

Sarah laughed, her face lighting up and then filling with incredulous surprise when she digested the ridiculous comment. "When you do WHAT?!"

"You heard me. It's on now."

"Bring it, nerd boy."

Laughing, Chuck quickly set up the scoring system. He chose the nickname "N3RD B0Y" and entered "WE1NER CH1CK" for Sarah. "Oh, now you've done it," Sarah warned when she saw her nickname, putting her hair up in a pony tail as she looked over Chuck's shoulder.

"You're up," Chuck said, sliding into his shoes.

"You sure?"

"Ladies first."

"Well, you just passed up your last chance to be in the lead."

Sarah picked up a ball from the return and prepared for her shot as if her life were on the line. She swung the ball a couple of times, tried to get a feel for how her shoes would slide on the floor, and even tried to sneak a peek at somebody a couple of lanes down to get an idea what she was supposed to do.

"Um, I think the alley closes in fifteen minutes," Chuck mocked, looking at his watch for emphasis.

Sarah didn't say a word. She crouched in preparation, took a few steps towards the lane … and rolled possibly the worst bowling shot Chuck had ever seen. Sarah's fingers seemed to stick in the ball as she threw it, pulling her forward and over the foul line. The ball went into the left gutter about a quarter of the way down the alley. The video screen showed an animated picture of a chicken flapping its wings. "Fowl!" read the caption.

Chuck burst into gales of laughter, pulling his legs up in his chair.

Sarah's expression went from confusion to aggravation, angrily blowing some bangs that had fallen into her face out of the way. After considering the situation, she sheepishly joined in the laughter. That only made Chuck laugh harder.

The ball rumbled up the return. Her second shot was better, managing to pick two pins off the right side. "All right, all right. Let's see what you can do."

"I'm pretty sure I can top that," Chuck said.

He was right. He knocked down three pins in his frame - and got pretty much the same treatment from Sarah that he had given to her.

As the game went on, they got somewhat better, but neither one of them got a mark until Sarah knocked down all ten pins with the second ball in the fifth frame. She mistakenly shouted out, "Strike!" and did a little celebration dance, causing Chuck to smile broadly. She tagged his hand as they passed, something that would become more and more routine, and more and more affectionate, as the game progressed.

When it became clear that they weren't going to reach the goals for the first game, Chuck started goofing around, rolling a ball backwards between his legs. It was his best shot of the night, knocking down eight pins – something Sarah took great pleasure in pointing out.

The two were having a great deal of fun, and the fun only increased when Morgan and Anna showed up towards the end of their first game. Their friends took over the second lane. Anna was clearly the best bowler of the bunch, although Sarah was learning quickly. Soon, they were eating bar food and generally having a terrific time.

Fourth frame into the second game, Sarah rolled a strike. She screamed exuberantly, turned around and ran to Chuck, jumping at him and throwing her arms around his neck. Chuck held his girlfriend tightly against him, content with everything in the world.

* * *

Chuck lined up what could be their last ball. He found himself sitting on 105 with six pins left standing. If he knocked down five of the remaining pins, his score plus Sarah's strike would complete their goal.

He wiped his hand on his pant leg. During his time as an agent, he had gotten better at thinking under pressure, but hitting a pressure shot was a completely different matter.

"Hey," Sarah said to him as she walked in front of him. "You can do this. Like you said, use your arm like a pendulum and focus on your target."

Chuck's expression revealed his uncertainty.

She studied him for a second. She leaned in and looked him dead in the eye. "You can do this," she repeated. She stepped back to give him room.

Her reassurance and confidence in him helped calm him. He eyed his target, picturing what he wanted to do in his head. When he felt ready, he let the ball drop, keeping his arm straight, and took four steps. He let the ball go.

The ball rolled down the alley towards the central cluster of pins. It had a chance.

The pins sprayed with a loud clatter. Four of them fell immediately. As if in slow motion, a fifth, nicked by one of the flying pins, teetered for a moment before toppling to the ground.

The video screen confirmed it: his final score was 110 on the nose. Chuck threw his arms into the air as Sarah ran towards him, cheering and smiling.

A quick hug and a short celebration later, they remembered that they had completed their task. They grabbed their street shoes and, after high-fiving Morgan and Anna, they ran to the desk to get their letter. They swapped their shoes as George verified their scores and presented them with their prize: a square piece of a blue note card with a capital letter 'F'.

As the two of them ran towards the front door, Chuck marveled at how it felt like he could tackle anything with Sarah around. He also found it strange how normal everything seemed to feel for the first time since Bryce sent him the email.

At least, everything felt normal until her phone rang as they approached the entrance to the bowling alley. Sarah pulled up and answered, "Walker here." After listening for a moment, she added, "On my way." She hung up.

Chuck stared at her in dismay. She saw his expression, and said, "There's been an attack on the Fulcrum warehouse we raided a month ago. We've been ordered to go check it out."

He sighed. So much for normal.


	5. The Other Scavenger Hunt

_Ed. Note – This scene takes place in a warehouse from "Chuck vs Five Men, One with a Knife". I made an effort to revisit what happened in that story for those who haven't read it without boring the people who have._

_Thanks to kayla101blue for the beta._

* * *

**Scene XIII – El Segundo, 729 Lairport Street, Warehouse**

As Chuck strode towards the warehouse with the businesslike Sarah at his side, Chuck felt very strange. He supposed that was perfectly natural: after all, he had almost died there.

On the way to the site, Sarah and Chuck drove by the spot where the surveillance van had been parked. Members of a Fulcrum cell had yanked Chuck out of the van. As often seemed to be the case, waiting in the car had not proven to be a good idea.

The entrance to the warehouse had been badly damaged in a firefight when Team Chuck had raided the place; some additional, fresher damage was now plainly obvious. Efforts were being made to camouflage the damage; Sarah and Chuck passed through a group of agents wearing painters gear that were busy patching holes, replacing a pane of glass, and repairing a wooden beam.

Perfunctory efforts had been made to clean up the front office. The desk, now riddled with bullet holes from a pair of gunfights, had been converted into a surveillance station. A series of monitors displayed views of the area surrounding the warehouse. Three agents, armed to the teeth and wearing protective armor, alertly stood watch. They checked Sarah's credentials; they were clearly surprised when Chuck had none. However, the two were expected and Sarah's approval proved good enough. They were both promptly handed site badges and admitted.

As the two made their way deeper into the warehouse, Chuck asked, "So what happened this morning?"

"Eight to ten attackers, likely Fulcrum, tried to break through the defenses at the front of the building."

As they entered the interior of the warehouse, the damage lessened and was replaced with a contingent of agents busily organizing the contents of the warehouse. Chuck counted seventeen agents, all in dark suits, milled around the area with various tasks. Those were the ones he could see.

"Wow, Fulcrum really thought they could take on, what, 25-30 CIA agents?"

Sarah shook her head, clearly baffled. "Either they didn't research this very well or they counted on the advantage of surprise. They lost three men and never even penetrated the building."

Looking around, Chuck spotted the semi-open area where Chuck had been held by five Fulcrum cell members. One had threatened to cut his liver out with a knife. Another had held a gun at Chuck's temple, ready to pull the trigger. Only a crack shot from Sarah had saved him.

He couldn't help himself; without a word, he walked over to where his life had nearly ended. Between the two rows of folding tables, the floor was still stained where a man had bled from the gunshots that Sarah had used to save him. He found he couldn't take his eyes away from the bloodstains.

His focus was so complete that he didn't even hear Sarah calling him. "Chuck? Chuck." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Chuck?"

He started, snapped from his daze.

"Hey, you all right?" Sarah asked.

"Yeah. I was remembering what happened here." He tried to pretend like he had gotten past it. "But that's just another day in the life of an agent, right?" He doubted she would believe him. Heck, he didn't believe him. Then again, he still wasn't used to a life filled with danger. He wondered if he ever would be.

Sarah was so focused that she apparently took Chuck's statement at face value. That bothered him for a reason he couldn't pinpoint.

She said, "So, we've been tasked with trying to figure out what Fulcrum could want so badly that they would try such a desperate attack. Where do you think we should start?"

"I dunno. Any idea what are we looking for?"

"We have no idea, but there must be something really important for Fulcrum to try to attack a small army of CIA agents."

Chuck shrugged. "One end is as good as another. Should we start down there?" he asked, pointing to their left.

She nodded her assent. The pair donned latex gloves and walked down towards one end of the large open area of the warehouse. As they walked, Chuck said, "Why is this stuff still here? I thought all of this would have been moved to a more secure location by now."

"A Fulcrum cell was working out of here. After the clean-and-cover, we dusted every surface of this place for fingerprints and searched for anything that could help us track down additional agents within the agency. That took time, as did freeing up enough agents for this big a job. We're in the final stages of organizing what we found before we can clear it out."

"Clean-and-cover?"

"It's short for clean-up and cover-up. Secure the site, deal with the bodies and the blood, and then ensure that the public won't find out what really happened here."

"Ah. It's somehow both comforting and terrifying to know that there's a nickname for cleaning up blood and bodies as well as hiding things from the general population."

"Chuck…"

"I know, I know: it's necessary. Still."

Arriving at the end of a row, Chuck started examining the items on the first table. The items were all taken from the front desk, including some old Venezuelan magazines and newspapers and other reading materials. A couple of note cards acted as placeholders, indicating that a pair of handguns had been removed from this table and were stored on a rack elsewhere in the warehouse. There was nothing of interest.

The next table held various office supplies from around the compound. Again, Chuck was able to quickly scan the table contents and move on.

Moving from table to table, he made his way across the warehouse. When Chuck had first spotted the sheer volume of items he would need to view, he was worried that sorting through them would take the better part of the day. However, because the items were well-organized, Chuck found that he was often able to spend less than a minute scanning a table before determining that there was nothing important.

There were tables and display racks that took longer. When Chuck reached the weapons rack, he took some time to examine the weapons and any serial numbers that were still intact. He did flash once off a partial serial number, but the intel was about an unrelated crime that had been committed four years ago. The gun had somehow found its way into Fulcrum's hands, probably via the black market.

It took about forty minutes for Chuck to scan most of the items in the first row. Aside from the flash on the handgun, he hadn't seen anything remotely interesting. The last two tables in the row didn't seem any more promising; they contained articles of clothing gathered from the various suspects and from around the warehouse.

He was just about ready to move to the next row when a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots caught his eye. Instantly, the familiar sensations of a flash overtook him.

_An image of a crate of soda bottles._

_A picture of the boots._

_A diagram of the boots, showing a hidden compartment in the heel in each._

_An illustration of a thin black metal rod with strange prongs on the end of it._

_A sequence of images of the rod being inserted into a seemingly decorative circle on the boot; when turned, the key popped the heel compartment open._

_Inserting a different rod into the hole, and showing that an empty vial was crushed._

_A sequence of images of a set of hands inserting a vial of liquid into a cushioned slot exactly the size of the vial. One vial was full of a clear, watery red liquid, and the other was full of a thicker, opaque green liquid._

_The crate of soda bottles._

As he snapped out of the trance, he only barely managed not to panic. He took a quick look around the room to see if anyone noticed. Only Sarah had.

She subtly tilted her head towards the boots, and he nodded in response. He was fairly certain that his ashen complexion conveyed the danger that the boots represented. The two liquids were very dangerous: the green was a powerful corrosive acid and the red was a strong explosive when exposed to oxygen.

Among other things, the boots were a perfect airline hijacking kit. The boots would get the liquids through security, the acid would get hijackers into the cockpit, and the explosive was powerful enough to rip a hole in a plane's fuselage - or destroy most of the warehouse, if the vial should crack.

Sarah motioned for Chuck to calm down; he did his best. Taking a step towards him, Sarah said in a low voice, "I'm going to go find something to put the boots in. Leave the table and move along like you didn't find anything."

Despite her presence, Chuck was on the verge of panicking. "Sarah, we can't just leave them there," he said, trying to use a quiet voice.

"It's been sitting there for a month, Chuck. It's not going anywhere in the next five minutes. Move along, and don't look around or do anything else that would attract attention." She gave him a serious look at the end of her statement; this one wasn't open for debate.

"OK," he said, forcing himself to calm down. "You're probably right."

She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll be right back." She turned around and headed back towards the front of the building.

Chuck moved to the next row, proceeding more slowly through the items. If something like a pair of boots could be that important, he couldn't afford to breeze past anything. No matter what section he was in, he took a little extra time to be thorough.

* * *

Sarah had noticed some empty boxes behind the front desk as they came in; she had decided to retrieve one of them to help her to smuggle out the boots. As Sarah arrived in the front room, she saw one of the CIA agents hassling Casey as she grabbed a smaller box. Casey's expression suggested he was about to lose his temper.

The antagonistic agent said, "You NSA agents are all alike. You think you can just waltz in wherever you want, whenever you want."

Casey glared at the agent. "Just like the CIA to worry more about who they can push around than about, say, finishing an assignment."

"This coming from an NSA agent? That's hilarious."

"Is there a problem?" Sarah asked the two agents, her tone conveying her lack of amusement.

Defensively, the other CIA agent said, "This guy thinks he can just waltz into a CIA site without any type of official notification,"

Sarah fought to speak before Casey in order to defuse the situation; she was barely quick enough. "Apparently you've seen his NSA badge." The guard nodded. "Good. I can vouch for him – we work together. Let him in."

The agent started to say something. "Which part of 'let him in' are you struggling with? Trust me when I say you don't want me to bother Director Graham with this."

Casey started to say something else, but Sarah cut him off. "Casey, can you come help me with something please." It wasn't a request.

The obnoxious CIA agent eyed Casey as he walked past. It was all Casey could do to control himself.

As the partners entered the next room, Casey muttered, "Central Incompetence Agency."

"I'm sorry?" Sarah said with a dangerous expression on her face.

Casey gave her a look that might have been the closest thing to an apology that he had ever given – and it wasn't even that close to one. "I'm goddamn tired of the competing agencies in this government. We've got too much to do to get distracted by petty little things like this. We lose track of the big picture."

Sarah's face showed agreement. "We'll solve that another day. Chuck flashed on something out there; he couldn't tell me what it was because of all the other agents around, but his expression told me it's very dangerous. I'm about to pack it up so we can take it to the CIA facility."

"You mean, so you can take it to the CIA facility."

Sarah could tell from his tone that something was up. She arched an eyebrow.

Casey said, "Speaking of things that bug me about the government, Representative Drew Jennings has formally requested that Chuck and I meet him down south. General Beckman made it clear that we had no say in the matter."

"Down south?"

"It's related to the mission Chuck and I completed while you were out of town. We should probably get you clearance so we can brief you on it."

She didn't like the idea of Casey taking Chuck somewhere unspecified, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She would need to get Graham to get her clearance on this as soon as possible. It would be nice to get Casey briefed on her activities as well.

Casey was right. Sometimes agencies spent too much times hiding secrets from each other.

Her thoughts quickly shifted back to the implications of the change in plans. Sarah had been hoping that she and Chuck could get back to the scavenger hunt; this was going to complicate things. She sighed.

Casey took her sigh to mean something else. "Don't worry – I'll have your boyfriend back soon enough."

"Please. I just don't want to have to find an excuse about why Chuck is suddenly last place in the scavenger hunt he usually wins."

The NSA agent grunted. Chuck would have classified it as grunt number three, the slightest bit of sarcasm with a heavy dose of skepticism, but Sarah wasn't about to bite.

Re-entering the main room, Sarah motioned for Casey to go check on Chuck. Most of the eyes in the room ended up on Casey; the man attracted attention both for his size and, for the agents who recognized him, his reputation. This gave Sarah the opportunity to slip the boots into the box without anyone noticing.

Casey arrived as Chuck was about halfway down the row. He gave Casey a subtle nod in greeting. Casey's questioning glance was answered with a head shake that indicated that Chuck hadn't found anything else. The NSA agent stayed by Chuck's side as he continued scanning items; Casey started examining items as well to try to hide that Chuck was somehow more important in the effort.

About twenty minutes later, Chuck had completed going through the tabled area. He and Casey took a quick stroll through the areas of the warehouse with larger unmoved items, but he didn't flash on anything else.

The three huddled for a second. Sarah would head back to the CIA facility to make sure the boots were properly handled and deal with a few administrative tasks; meanwhile, Chuck and Casey would head down south. They would rendezvous over by USC so Chuck and Sarah could try to finish at least part of their scavenger hunt.

Sarah escorted Chuck and Casey to the front to make sure Casey exited the premises without incident. The obnoxious security guard looked like he wanted to say something else, but wisely chose to hold his tongue as she stared him down.

As Sarah finished some paperwork at the front desk, one of the other guards asked, "You headed back to the facility?"

"Yes," she responded. "Why?"

"We've got a cub agent who needs a lift back there."

"His credentials are verified?"

"100 percent."

Sarah didn't like the idea, but she didn't have a graceful way to say 'no'. "Sure, why not."

"Hey, Holliwell! Got you a ride."

The side door to the room opened. A man with close-cropped brown hair, probably a year or two out of college, walked through wearing a tidy white button-down shirt and a pair of navy blue slacks. The guard indicated Sarah, and the man strode confidently over to her and offered his hand. "Hi. Skip Holliwell."

"Hi, Skip, Agent Walker. Nice to meet you." As was habit, she gave him a quick once-over. Skip was a thin man who turned out to be a few inches shorter than Sarah, which only made the agent look younger.

With an ingratiating smile, Skip said, "So, shall we get going? Been stuck here all morning; I can't wait to get back and get some work done."

He had an eager quality about him that, for some reason, really rubbed Sarah the wrong way. She was already regretting her decision to bring him along.


	6. Divide and Conquer

_Ed. Note – Both scenes here refer to people and events from "Chuck vs the Strange Bedfellows". Again, I try to review what happened for those who haven't read that story without boring those who have._

* * *

**Scene XIV – Los Angeles Streets - Northbound**

"Should've trusted my instincts," Sarah muttered to herself.

"What's that?" Skip asked.

"Nothing."

Skip, or Skippy as she'd started thinking of him, was a talking machine. He rambled nonstop like an enthusiastic three-year old, rambling in excruciating detail about everything from the most basic CIA techniques to minutia about CIA procedures.

In between, he would intersperse inappropriate questions that he really shouldn't have been asking, either because he wouldn't have the clearance for the answer or because they were far too personal. In either case, her admonitions when he crossed those lines did little to deter him; he would simply ramble for another couple minutes before hitting Sarah with another question out of the blue.

"So, you got a first name, Agent Walker?"

"Yes," Sarah answered shortly. At least he had finally asked a reasonable question that she could answer. However, she chose not to.

"What, you can't even tell me your name?"

"No, I can," she said coldly, hoping the implication would slow down his seemingly endless babbling. She rarely acted this way, but for some reason Skippy brought out the worst in her.

Unbothered, Skippy began his meandering discourse again. At least he finally seemed to back off the questions; that allowed her to tune out most of his innocuous blather.

She had to admit her irritability wasn't entirely Skippy's fault. Thought she hadn't let it show, the interruption of her day with Chuck really bothered her.

Sarah wasn't used to having things to look forward to outside of work. Technically, there really wasn't a time that she was out of work. During assignments, her down time was spent with gym workouts and examining her cover for flaws. The occasional sports massage was about as much as she ever anticipated.

The same was true when she was on the bench awaiting her next assignment, which was rare. She would catch up on paperwork, learn the latest techniques and get briefed on political situations and intelligence figures of interest. There never truly was a down time.

Now, however, she found herself desperately wanting her work to be done so she could spend time with Chuck. Even the opportunity to ride to the CIA facility alone with him was snatched away by a competing assignment, leaving her instead with … Skippy.

The annoying man was still happily prattling about nothing important. She allowed her mind to drift to the scavenger hunt, biting her lip as she tried to consider one of the unsolved clues on the sheet. However, Skippy's voice kept cutting in like nails on a chalkboard, killing her concentration and making every minute pass agonizingly slowly.

* * *

Sarah had never been so happy to see a CIA facility as she was at that moment.

Pulling into the first parking spot she saw, she leapt out of the car like she had been launched by a catapult and quickly started to head towards the entrance.

Skippy climbed out of his side of the car. "Um, Agent Walker?"

"What?!" She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm down. "What is it?"

"Does this box need to go inside?"

Sarah couldn't believe it. He had so frustrated her that she had almost forgotten why she was there.

"Yes, thank you. Please grab it."

Skippy walked around to the driver's side of the car to retrieve the box. Sarah was busy scanning the area to make sure there were no unfriendlies, so she didn't notice when Skippy removed the boots from the box and slid them into a shopping bag on the floor of the back seat, replacing the boots with a sweatshirt from her back seat to give the box some weight.

He handed her the box, and said, "What's in there that's so important? Can I see?"

"No," Sarah said curtly. She certainly wasn't about to let Skippy have a glance into the box. She was determined to keep the box shut with him around.

* * *

A car with the two Los Mellizos henchmen pulled up into a vacant parallel parking spot opposite the entrance where the two CIA agents were walking into the building. The Fulcrum agent gave a signal indicating one of the items Proteus wanted so badly was in the car.

The henchmen didn't care. Sarah Walker was one of the two agents responsible for the death of Enrique Castaño, along with a number of AUC patriots. They weren't about to storm the CIA parking lot and potentially give up their shot at the woman.

Let Proteus gripe and moan about his missing boots and PDAs. They wanted Walker. They would wait for her to leave.

**Scene XV – Los Angeles Streets – Southbound**

Casey was in a bad mood. He hadn't said five words to Chuck since they left the warehouse; while Chuck wanted to help, he knew that only tended to irritate the NSA agent.

However, after Casey very deliberately cut off a shiny red sports car with their black Suburban as they got on the Five, Chuck felt like he had little choice but to say something to distract the agent. Casey had glowered at the other angry driver, as if hoping the other driver would give him an excuse to do something else. Luckily, the other driver took one look at Casey's eyes and realized that he was out of his league. He quickly slid his car over to the relative safety of the center lane.

"Hey, Casey?" Chuck asked, a bit tentatively.

"What?!" The agent seemed focused on finding an opening to slide over a lane, so he confront the other driver again.

"Why are we meeting with Jennings?"

"Because Beckman told us to." A large semi slid back between the Suburban and the sports car. The sports car took the opportunity to dart forward. Casey grunted, realizing his prey had eluded him.

"That's not what I meant. You told me that you believe Jennings is dirty."

"And that's exactly why we're meeting him."

"I don't get it."

Impatiently, Casey explained, "The DEA hasn't finished clearing out the drugs and the money and all the other evidence at the Veron place because we're trying to see if we can lure a few more fish into the net. Jennings could be one of those fish."

"Oh." That hadn't occurred to Chuck. "Still, couldn't he be the one setting a trap?"

"C'mon, Bartowski, think. There's a small army of DEA agents still there. He can't lay a trap there."

"But what about along the way? He'd have to know we were taking the Five."

Casey started to lash out at Chuck, but then held back, glancing in both sets of mirrors.

The agent didn't say another word for a long time, but he did studiously check his mirrors every thirty seconds or so.

Chuck smiled. To him, the silence was gratifying. It was as close to a compliment as he could have gotten from the big man.

* * *

As they closed in on Veron's estate, there was still no sign of the two being tailed. Relaxing a bit, the two started discussing what would go on once they arrived.

"OK, Chuck, the plan here will be similar to the plan at the warehouse. They haven't moved anything off the property, so take the opportunity to scan through whatever is in the cave. Maybe we can figure out who Veron worked for."

"What about Jennings?"

"What about Jennings? I'll deal with Jennings."

Chuck sighed. Every time he felt like he was making some headway with Casey, something happened that made Chuck feel like he was nothing more than the Intersect with legs once again.

"Aw, would you look at that," Casey groaned.

Chuck looked around. "What?" All he saw was pair of lovers, both overweight by a significant margin, walking down the side of the residential road with pudgy fingers interlaced.

"That," Casey said, pointing at the couple. "I bust my hump day-in, day-out, to protected people's freedom, and that's what they do with it?!"

"Well, freedom of choice means the freedom to choose…" Chuck considered his next words carefully, ruling out 'wrong', 'badly', and 'gluttony' before continuing with, "…differently than you or I might choose."

Casey grunted, completely unconvinced.

"Casey, in case you haven't noticed, this is a nation of video-game playing, charge-it-now-and-pay-later, all-you-can-eat, Starbucks-swilling, I-deserve-it-before-I-earn-it recliner jockeys. Most Americans religiously practice at least one of the seven deadly sins on a daily basis."

"Yeah, well it gets tiresome being one of the only ones who don't, especially when I'm the one putting his life on the line every day."

"Really. You don't practice any of the seven deadly sins? How about wrath? I've seen that a time or two when you've chased down a suspect … or that red sports car you cut off. Better yet, how about pride, like in that last I'm-holier-than-thou little pronouncement of yours?"

Casey's eyes narrowed and darted to the side at the accusation. His shoulders rose and his face tightened, warning of the diatribe before it started. "That's pretty amusing, coming from a guy whose life is defined by sloth and envy."

Chuck tried to say something, but Casey cut him off. "Tell me Charles Carmichael isn't anything but a manifestation of an envy of your ex-classmates, the ones off doing so well, the ones in the place you thought you would be by now. See, they're doing well because when they had a bad week or two, they didn't fold like a house of cards. They didn't use it as an excuse to spend the next five years of their life living in their sister's spare bedroom, not recognizing how goddamn good they really have it. They didn't use it as an excuse to lie around and play video games rather than using their God-given gifts to pull themselves back onto their feet."

As Casey pulled the car into Jaime Veron's driveway, passing between a series of cars parked on the grass on either side, he delivered his coup d'grace. "You're just another nerd, just one of many. Hell, the only reason you aren't living in your mother's basement is because there isn't one to live in."

Two agents walked towards them, one hand extended palm-first. Casey obliged, slowing the car to a halt. He turned to look at Chuck with a victorious and slightly wild expression.

Chuck's face was flat and emotionless, filled with a coldness that Casey didn't believe Chuck was capable of until that moment.

The two were silent for a long moment. Chuck finally spoke, disconcerting Casey with the lowness of tone and of volume. "You know, Casey, I've often wondered what you thought about me behind that inscrutable mask that you wear 24/7. Part of me thought that I might actually have earned some minimal level of respect from you; after all, our little team has been pretty successful over the past six months. But I guess that's not the case.

"You want to talk about sloth? Fine. I work forty hours a week at the Buy More, and forty more for the government. I make eleven bucks an hour at the first job, and absolutely nothing for the latter. Yet I still pull myself out of bed every day and do it, because it's the right thing to do.

"As for envy? Yes, I'm guilty of envy. I envy people who have a choice in what they do. I envy people who aren't in a situation where they endanger the people they love just by being around them. But right now, the only people I truly envy are the people who don't have to deal with your crap on a daily basis. I don't care who you are – there are some things you just don't say to a person."

One of the agents rapped on Casey's window, startling Casey. He swung his gaze back to Chuck, whose icy stare continued to emanate from the center of his flat expression.

Deciding that Casey wasn't going to respond, Chuck undid his safety belt and opened his door, slowly getting out with hands exposed so the agent could frisk him for weapons.

Casey stared at the console for a moment longer, trying to figure out what had just happened – and why it bothered him so much.

* * *

_Ed. Note - As always, I appreciate criticism. I haven't had time to proofread and rewrite like I normally do, so any feedback any of you could give about how you like the story so far would be greatly appreciated..._


	7. Underground

**Scene XVI – CIA Facility**

Sarah and Skip showed their badges at the security desk and were quickly admitted. As the two walked down the hall, she adjusted her oversized purse on her shoulder to make it easier to carry the box.

Skip followed her like a lost puppy, positioning himself to her left side. Their synchronized footsteps resonated down the sterile hallways. Her irritation grew.

"Thanks for the lift," Skip said playfully.

"No problem."

She wasn't sure what he was after; he wouldn't be the first agent to hit on her, and he wouldn't be the first agent looking to turn a chance meeting into a networking opportunity. Either way, she wasn't interested in mentoring a young agent in the ways of the world.

"Where are you taking that?"

She stopped cold, turning to face him. "Didn't you say that you had work to do?"

He looked surprised. "Well, yeah, but it can wait."

"Look, Skip." It took all her self-control not to call him Skippy. "What I'm doing is well above your clearance, and way above your pay grade. I need you to go and do your job so I can go do mine."

Skip became crestfallen. "OK, I guess. But if there's anything I can do…"

She turned to start walking. "…I'll call you." She strode off with long deliberate strides, glad to have finally escaped. Sarah refused to look back; she was afraid of doing anything to encourage the agent.

If she had looked back, she would have seen Skip's boyish face turn surprisingly menacing.

* * *

Sarah approached the elevator bank. A middle-aged white agent with a dark suit and red tie stood waiting for her. With a perfunctory nod, he pushed the button; the pair entered the elevator.

As the doors shut, she punched in a code. The elevator light shifted from bluish to a dark red. A female voice said, "Passcode, please." A timer appeared on the elevator monitor, counting down from ten with a beep each time the number changed. The male agent checked a small scrap of paper and entered a sequence onto the code keypad.

"Code accepted," the female voice said. The light returned to its normal bluish tint and the elevator descended into the subbasement that most of the facility's agents didn't even suspect existed.

The door opened, revealing a single long hallway with two doors evenly spaced on the left wall and a single door on the right. After nodding thanks to the other agent, Sarah left the elevator and headed for the single door. The elevator doors remained open; the agent kept watch on her until she reached her destination.

Sarah didn't really notice; she was considering Director Graham's order that anything they found at the warehouse be taken to the special holding room on the bottom level. She was puzzled by the order at first, until she opened the door.

The front of the room had been fit with securable a pass-through area with a desk designed to have full visibility of the room. It struck her as odd that the set-up was not designed to keep people out: it was designed to keep people in.

The outside of the room was lined with filing cabinets and ceiling-high shelves laden with items. The center of the room had a series of tables, also loaded with items. It was one hundred feet by thirty feet of evidence and intelligence.

She shut the door behind her, absent-mindedly setting the box and her purse on an unoccupied corner of a nearby table as she moved towards one corner of the room. Ultimately, the mounds of evidence didn't bother her; what bothered her was a small room that had been erected in the back corner. The placement of the door and a small rectangular extension of the room seemed to confirm her worst fears.

Hesitating for a moment, she suddenly yanked the door open.

Inside was a bedroom. A bed was centered against the near wall. There was a closet and a bookcase and a fake window, covered with blinds, mounted against the outside of the larger room.

She strode around the room, marveling at the terrifying level of detail. They had got it perfect, right down to the Tron poster on the near wall and a chip of wood missing from the windowpane.

It was an exact replica of Chuck's bedroom.

She dug her cell phone out of her pocket; she hit a speed-dial button.

Her call was answered. "Graham here. Secure."

"Walker here. Secure. What the hell is going on?!"

* * *

The red-tied agent rode the elevator back to the first floor. The doors opened.

The agent was startled by the short brown-haired man standing, waiting, in the center of the doorway.

"Hi," the man said in an obsequious tone. "Skip Holliwell. I'm new here."

The agent in the elevator stared dumbly; his expression became even more confused as a hiss of air accompanied the bullet piercing his heart. He collapsed to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

"Don't worry about it," Skip said as he boarded the elevator and dragged the dead body back into the corner. "I'll show myself around."

* * *

"Agent Walker," Graham began, "Given recent events, I have come to the conclusion that Chuck needs to be confined for his own safety. Please make him aware that this will be his temporary home until we can transfer him to more permanent arrangements. He can make himself useful by starting to review the items in the warehouse, letting us know when he flashes on anything. Stay with him for as long as necessary; as his handler, I expect you to keep him calm and help him adjust."

Her mind spun out of control; it was all she could do just to function. "Sir, Chuck is not here with me."

"What?! Where is he?"

"He and Agent Casey went somewhere south at the request of Representative Jennings. General Beckman gave the order. I assumed you knew."

"Jeanine!" Graham bellowed.

Sarah heard the voice of Graham's admin answer distantly, obscured by the intercom.

"Did General Graham alert us that any agents would be meeting Drew Jennings?"

She still couldn't make out what Jeanine said in response, but the tone sounded apologetic. She could, however, clearly made out Graham's curse. "How soon can you get Bartowski back there?"

"I don't know, sir. Agent Casey, Chuck and myself are supposed to rendezvous close to downtown in about ninety minutes."

"Very well. Try to find a way to get Chuck there as soon as possible."

"Is Agent Casey aware of the situation?"

"No."

The short answer surprised Sarah, both because she and Casey had acted like a team to that point and because Graham was clearly holding back some key information. "Sir, what is it that you aren't telling me?"

"You have your orders, Agent Walker. Your job is to get Bartowski to his new home ASAP. I'll worry about … everything else." -click-

Completely stunned by the latest developments, she unthinkingly collapsed onto the bed, staring blankly around the room.

The detail really was perfect. If she didn't know better, she would think it was nighttime and she was relaxing on Chuck's bed. However, she had little doubt how Chuck, who was so sensitive to what was real and what was fake, would react to it.

She had to get out of the fake room. Just the thought of Chuck's reaction made her feel nauseous.

As she came through the door, she nearly let out a scream despite all her training. Skippy was standing near the entrance, about twenty feet away, poking through items on the one of the tables. "Skip, what are you doing down…?!"

He turned towards her, and she saw the small gun in his hand. The boyish enthusiasm was gone, replaced by a intense, almost vicious determination. "Hello, Agent Walker. I have a couple more questions for you, if you don't mind."

**Scene XVII – Dana Point, Jaime Veron's Residence**

Escorted by one of the DEA agents at the end of the driveway, Casey and Bartowski entered the house, turning into a stairway leading into the basement. In the back corner of the unfinished basement was a wide opening leading down into a downward-sloping tunnel.

The two descended into the earth. Miner's lights strung on a line and pinned to the wooden beams of the tunnel supports provided enough illumination for the two to navigate the undulations of the rough-hewn floor. The air grew warmer as they went deeper; neither man really noticed, as each was lost in his own thoughts.

Two hundred yards later and one hundred feet deeper, flickering light foreshadowed the end of the tunnel. A few dozen more paces carried the pair into a smuggler's cave.

Bartowski had found the cave. Its entrance to the ocean had been cleverly concealed in the back of the house's boathouse. He, Casey, and Carina had been given one hour to prove that Jaime Veron was the drug dealer that they claimed he was, and literally at the last minute, Bartowski had pulled their collective bacon from the fire with his discovery.

Casey looked around the cave. It was smaller than he remembered, a rounded chamber about 150 feet across and twenty feet high. A J-shaped ten-foot wide stone ledge ran around the outside of half the chamber, leaving enough water for a large boat to navigate in and turn around while allowing enough room for storage of a great deal of cocaine and money.

The source of the flickering lights was clear: several agents were working to disassemble a pair of large metal containers using acetylene torches. Even with the cool water lapping below, the chamber felt hot and smoky. The air reeked of the acrid scent of the cutting torches.

Casey glanced over at Bartowski. The wavy-haired man was staring around the cave with dead eyes and a dull expression. Casey kept forgetting how seriously Bartowski took everything he said, although even the NSA agent had to admit that the comment about his mother was probably out-of-bounds. Still, he couldn't figure out why Bartowski cared what he thought. Walker certainly didn't.

"Agent Casey! Agent Bartowski!"

Jennings waved at the pair; he stood over near the passageway that led to the secret entrance in the boathouse. He apparently located himself over there to get away from the heat and the noise of the cutting torches; his pant legs blew in the breeze, indicating that the secret door from the passenger tunnel to the boathouse was open, even if the boat access was not.

Remembering their plan, Chuck directed a cold stare at Casey before he trudged to the other end of the room to see if he could flash on anything.

There was nothing he could do at the moment but join Jennings. Shaking off his mood, Casey strode across the cave as if he owned it. When he reached Jennings, he firmly gripped the proffered hand of the US Representative in greeting.

"So, Agent Casey, how are things?"

"Busy, sir. To what do I owe the honor?"

"To the point, I see. I just wanted to get some questions answered, and this seemed like a reasonable place to talk."

"I still don't see why we couldn't have done this at your home or your office. This was a little out of our way."

"Well, I wanted to discuss some things in context."

"Such as?"

"Such as how did you know about Veron and his operations? The DEA had been after him for years. What broke the case?"

Casey gave the representative a thin smile. "Sorry, sir. That's classified."

Jennings' eyebrows arched. "You do realize I have TS clearance, along with several SCIs."

"That may be, sir, but I'm confident you don't have clearance for this."

"Interesting. Does part of what you can't tell me explain how an NSA agent ended up working on a domestic case with a DEA agent?"

"You know I can't answer that, sir."

"And you see? That's what's so frustrating about the intelligence community. We spend more time keeping things from each other that we do actually getting things done."

Casey smiled. He had been railing against that very thing earlier in the day. "That's one place where you and I can agree, sir."

Silence overtook the pair. Casey glanced across the way to where Bartowski was glancing through a cornucopia of items seized from Veron and his men. Following his gaze, Jennings said, "I couldn't find out much about Agent Bartowski. His file is pretty much empty."

"He's new."

"Good man?"

Casey paused for a moment, staring across the cave at the lanky man. "Yes," he said with a slight smile, seeming to surprise even himself with the answer. "He's a good man."

* * *

Feeling eyes on him, Chuck glanced across the room at Casey and Jennings. The two were looking across the cave at him. Casey, caught, tried to hide his smirk as he turned back to Jennings and said something. The two shared a laugh.

Chuck flushed. What Casey said in the car was bad enough, but to make him the butt of a joke to cozy up to Jennings on top of it?

He tried to find a way to keep his anger in check. Desperate for something to focus on, he moved on to the next pile of items. They were mostly just threadbare clothes, much like the previous pile. These looked like the work clothes of some of the Colombians imported to do the hard labor on the operation; he doubted he would find much here.

"Yo!"

Chuck turned around. A man in a DEA jacket was eyeing Chuck doubtfully. "You're not in charge here, are you?"

Chuck fought the urge to laugh. "No. Why?"

"Got a package of stuff from DEA headquarters here. We were examining Jaime Veron's possessions and got an order to bring it all back here. Know anything about it?"

"Not a thing. Sorry."

"Typical, ain't it? Really, all I need is a signature and I'll be on my way."

Chuck looked around the ledge at the people who might be better suited to sign for something like this. Mostly, the ledge was full of workmen focused on disassembling the two metal containers. Casey and Jennings stood at the far ends.

He was feeling a bit rebellious after Casey's tirade in the car. _What the hell._ "I'll sign for it."

The delivery man smiled. "Thanks." He handed Chuck a clipboard. It was remarkably similar to signing a clipboard – except for the part where he needed to put his agent number.

He invented one on the fly: 09281980. He picked one he could remember in case he needed it again.

The DEA agent examined the information. "Thanks. I don't need to see your credentials, do I?"

"No-o-o. No need if I'm down here, right?"

"Makes sense to me." The man's grin grew as he handed Chuck a very large, sealed, padded envelope, larger than any envelope Chuck had seen before. "Thanks again!" The cheerful agent headed back for the tunnel leading to the house basement.

Chuck glanced across the way. Casey and Jennings seemed to be engrossed in their surprisingly friendly conversation.

Seeing Casey, Chuck's anger came flooding back. Impetuously, he took the envelope with Veron's belongings and decided to open it.

It was only as he pulled the string to open the package that he realized how stupid he had been. That package could have contained anything.

Luckily, it contained exactly what the agent said: Jaime Veron's belongings. Chuck started a new pile on the floor: a ridiculous white pair of pants, a black tank top, a gold neck chain and matching bracelet, a gold watch, a pair of …

Ew. There are certain things that had never occurred to Chuck when he considered what the life of an agent might involve. One of those things is to suddenly find yourself holding a pair of used thong underwear. He quickly dropped them onto the other clothes on the floor, flicking his fingers in the air as if that would somehow help to cleanse them.

Chuck decided to kneel down and carefully dump out the rest of the contents of the envelope to avoid any more unpleasant surprises. Shoes, socks, keys and a wallet fell out. Last, a surprisingly heavy package with bubble wrap taped around it slid down the padding of the envelope, coming to a rest on top of the pile. He curiously picked up the package and carefully removed the wrap, revealing a large PDA.

He turned the device over in his hands; in many ways, it was a model similar to the high-end models that they sold at the Buy More. However, the back of the device contained a couple of ports he wasn't used to seeing in a PDA. Still, the pattern of the back panel looked strangely familiar…

Chuck's eyelids fluttered.

_A picture of a green sea turtle floating in blue water._

_A series of schematics of the PDA._

_A schematic of ports on the Intersect._

_A picture of the PDA connected to the Intersect, downloading and encoding information._

_A picture of the sea turtle floating in the water._

As Chuck snapped out of the flash, he stiffened. He knew one thing – he wasn't about to let anything to do with the Intersect out of his sight.

He casually stood up; nobody was paying any attention to him. He slid the PDA into his pocket, behind his iPhone. Another scan of the room seemed to indicate that he'd gotten away with it. He let out a slow, controlled breath as tension started to flow out of him.

He wandered around the other piles of items, poking a pile here or prodding a pile there to make it look like he was actually doing something. In reality, he was staring with unseeing eyes as he considered what he had found.

The real question was – how did Jaime Veron end up with a PDA capable of downloading all the information on the Intersect?


	8. Dangers of Different Kinds

**Scene XVII – Dana Point, Jaime Veron's Residence, Smuggler's Cave**

Jennings and Casey stood together in the back of the cave. They looked more like a pair of old friends than an NSA agent and a U.S. Representative huddled in the corner to escape the worst of the hot, acrid smoke. The light from the sparks caused by the cutting torches across the way caught on the smoke, creating glows that often helped to shield the pair from the eyes of others and provided a certain level of privacy.

"You know, I don't envy you, Casey," Jennings said.

"How's that?"

"You're incredibly dedicated to your country. Your file is clear on that point. You follow orders meticulously and you pursue your assignments relentlessly. Yet, at the end of the day, you get held back by interagency pissing matches and interference from politicians."

"Politicians like yourself?"

"Touché, although I tend to observe more than I interfere … at least up until now."

Casey didn't try to hide his curiosity. "So, you intend to make my job harder by adding a dissenting opinion to the noise?"

Jennings' smile turned cunning. Casey barely hid his surprise; he had pegged Jennings as just another clueless congressional suit, albeit a dirty one. He had underestimated the man.

The representative said, "Let me ask you something, Casey. I have little doubt that, if you were on a mission and you could exchange your life for the betterment of the country, you would do it. You'd sacrifice yourself for the ideals you believe this country embodies in a heartbeat. So, what if the same opportunity presented itself in a different form?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"What if you could sacrifice your career for the betterment of America?"

Casey's blood ran cold; his voice remained hard. "Sir, with all due respect, if you're suggesting what I'm thinking you're suggesting, you're dangerously close to talking about treason."

"Treason is a violation of allegiance to your country. If you're doing what's best for the country, it isn't treason." Jennings shifted a bit closer to Casey, looking down to gather his thoughts before staring Casey in the eye. "There is more than one way to give yourself for the sake of your country, and there are better reasons to do so than an order given by some desk jockey."

Casey stiffened. "General Beckman is a good and loyal servant to her country. She…"

"She is handcuffed by political realities and blinded by her time away from the front lines. She is often out of touch with which fights that need fighting, and even if she wasn't, she doesn't have the leverage to fight those fights because she knows that her position could be taken away from her at any time, should the president or Congress decide that they don't like the way she does things. That's no way for a general to need to function. That's no way for the intelligence community to function."

The NSA agent wanted to retort, but it struck too close to home. He had come to the same conclusions by himself, and he had seen Beckman's frustration with her situation firsthand. The words died in his throat. He had to agree: that was no way for a general, or an intelligence community, to function.

Jenning's face relaxed as his smile smoothly returned. As calm as if he were chatting about the weather, he continued, "A time may come where you can help change that reality. Even if there may be a sacrifice involved, this country will end up better for it. Just something to think about, Agent Casey." He offered a hand.

Casey paused, trying to keep his stony visage in place to hide his inner turmoil. Somehow he felt like the mere act of shaking this man's hand was the first step down a very treacherous road.

His pragmatic side took over. There was too much going on here for him to make a stand right now. He reached out and shook the dry and scaly hand, realizing that not doing so could prove far more dangerous than spurning the simple offer.

Even as he shook Jennings' hand, part of him struggled with how things had turned around on him so quickly.

* * *

Jennings stared up the tunnel at the back of the departing NSA agent. All things considered, it was a fruitful first meeting.

After securing the files on Agents Casey, Walker and Bartowski, Fulcrum had concluded that neither Walker nor Bartowski would make good targets for recruitment. Walker had a spotless service record with no indications of the frustration or burnout that tended to make an agent a good recruit. Bartowski was simply too green and, frankly, didn't appear to be very valuable.

Agent Casey, on the other hand, was almost ideal. He had taken an extended leave from the service the previous year; his psychological evaluations during that period reflected an almost pathological need to follow orders coupled with a frustration with both the goals of the intelligence community and the way agents were allowed to accomplish those goals.

Their conversation had been revealing. Not only had their discussion confirmed Fulcrum's assessment of the man, but it indicated how short a leap it would be for Casey to go to joining them. After all, Fulcrum just wanted what was best for the country – just like Agent Casey. He had never seen such an ideal candidate for recruitment.

He was about to head up the tunnel as well when he remembered his primary purpose for scheduling the meeting there. He strode across the cave to the piles of clothes, quickly locating the belongings of Jaime Veron by spotting the garish white pants the man had been wearing. He started digging through his belongings.

His searching became slightly frantic. Where was the PDA?

He found a large envelope nearby and peeked inside. He pulled out a piece of paper with an inventory of Jaime Veron's belongings. Sure enough, the PDA was on the list.

The belongings had been delivered while Jennings was having his conversation with Casey; he had noticed the agent walk in with the belongings. That left only one possibility: Bartowski must have snagged it.

Jennings frowned. Why would Bartowski grab the PDA? How would he know to grab the PDA?

Something didn't make sense, but that would have to wait. Jennings had a tough call in front of him: should he send the Fulcrum agents waiting outside after Casey and Bartowski? Fulcrum might not have another shot of reclaiming the PDA, but if they went after the pair right now, Fulcrum would lose the chance at a very valuable recruit.

He agonized for a long minute before deciding not to call for an attack. The PDA and Bartowski appeared to be less valuable items on Proteus' priority list.

Besides, Jennings was confident that one more conversation would be enough to bring Casey into the fold. Once that happened, they would be able to get everything else missing from Proteus' list – including Bartowski and the PDA.

**Scene XVIII – CIA Facility, Basement, Bunker**

Sarah stared at Skip with a cool expression that belied what she felt inside. She was in a bad position, and they both knew it.

Still, a little flattery never hurt. "So, that whole exuberantly babbling persona was contrived? Nice."

"Yeah, well, when you're 5'4", rail-thin and baby-faced, you find you're pretty limited on the roles you can assume. The whole 'I'm-new-here' thing really seems to work, though, doesn't it? Hands where I can see them, please."

She obliged, raising her hands to about head height, elbows bent. "Is that why you joined Fulcrum?"

He gave her a sour look. "The CIA put me behind a desk. Said I wouldn't make a good field agent."

She licked her lips and smiled; she lent her voice a coquettish tone. "Well, you had me fooled. I would have figured…"

"Please stop. There's only one reason that you'd suddenly act like you find me attractive or competent, and that's the gun in my hand."

She put on her best seductive look. "Only one?"

Despite himself, Skip's face betrayed her effect on him. However, he recovered quickly. "Yes, only one."

Seeing he was onto her tactic, she switched gears. "I am confused by one thing: why wouldn't you take me in the car? Why wait until I'm in a building surrounded by CIA agents?"

"I'm not after you. Well, not only you. I needed to know where our esteemed director had moved some of the collateral collected on a mission. There's something else I need." As if reminded of that, he glanced down at the table next to him before returning his gaze to her.

While he was somewhat distracted, she tried to consider options. She wondered what her sister would do. Carina would probably have the man undressed by now.

He looked back at her suspiciously. She affected a look of innocence. "What are you looking for?" she asked.

"It isn't important."

"Really. Seems like breaking into a CIA facility and…"

"It isn't important to you." He slid over a table, and started looking through a small pile of books he found there. She recognized a few things on the table; it looked like the table contained a collection of items once belonging to Andon Minh, the information broker their team had captured around New Year's.

"Ah, there it is." He extracted a leather-bound book from the middle of a pile; with only one hand free, a couple other books spilled over. He didn't care.

"A book?" she asked.

"Again, it's not important. What is important is how we're going to get out of here." He walked over and set the book by her purse. Keeping a careful eye on her, he searched her purse, removing a gun, some particularly potent pepper spray and a set of throwing knives. He added the book to the purse, zipped it shut and tossed it to her. "Purse over your left shoulder please. Slowly."

Sarah obeyed. She didn't see much choice. Still, she was happy to find out that he didn't plan on shooting her here. That at least gave her a chance.

He waved the gun towards the door. "After you. I insist."

* * *

The pair slowly walked down the hallway; he remained a safe distance behind her.

Her eyes flitted from corner to corner as she carefully listened, hoping for a sound to hint at an opening to attack. Unfortunately, he was careful and patient; no such opening came.

The two arrived at the elevator. "Push the button, please." Sarah depressed the call button, and stared regretfully at the body of the dead agent who had keyed the code for her. The body was carelessly crumpled to the side of the elevator, a trickle of blood descending from a red circle near his heart. At least Skip had the decency to close the agent's eyes.

She was determined not to end up in a similar heap.

As they waited for the elevator, an idea occurred to her. "You do have the other code, don't you?"

"What other code?" Skip asked suspiciously.

"You need a second code to get off this floor. It's different than the first code."

"I'm not stupid. Why would you tell me that?"

"Let's just say the security measures on this elevator are a bit extreme."

She couldn't see his face, so she had no idea whether he bought her story. Her eyes again darted to the side as she strained to hear the slightest sound that might indicate a momentary advantage.

She heard his hand slipping into his pocket, no doubt searching for the guard's scrap of paper.

Time slowed. She pictured how he might be standing: gun in his right hand, left hand in his pocket, eyes cast downward as he searched his pocket. Blindly, she took a quick step back, spun and leveled a low kick with her right leg towards the area where she hoped the gun would be.

Her guess was good; her leg struck forearm; the gun and his body spun slightly. The weapon flew into the wall and rattled to the ground.

She dropped her right foot to the ground, halting her spin in perfect balance. His right arm was wide, and his left hand was trapped in his pants pocket. It was too easy.

With a satisfied look on her face, she reared back and delivered a clean roundhouse punch to the jaw. His stupefied look became vacant as his eyes rolled back in his head. He tipped over backwards and fell to the floor.

She shook her head and shoulders, releasing the tension. The punch felt surprisingly good. "I've been hanging around Casey too long," she decided.

The elevator monitor started beeping behind her, indicating a slow descent from the upper levels. Her smile vanished; it suddenly occurred to her that Skippy might have friends.

* * *

The elevator doors slid open, revealing two imposing men in dark suits and sunglasses with their hands clasped in the front of them. The two stared down the mostly empty hallway, hardly noticing the body of the dead agent to the left of the elevator. They exchanged a glance that clearly indicated they had expected Skip and Sarah to be waiting at the door.

Wordlessly, the two walked down the hallway side-by-side. Unsure which door to choose, a seemingly distant noise through the open door to the improvised bunker area gave them their answer. They drew their guns.

One covering the other, the pair secured the open doorway. The bulletproof glass lining the security pass-through revealed nobody obvious in the room. There were only a couple of places where the noise could have been generated. One of the men covered the door to Chuck's bedroom while the other quickly ruled out the possibilities in the main room.

Having narrowed the possibilities, the men exchanged nonverbal signals and focused on the door to the mock bedroom. They crept across the floor, deceptively light on their feet despite their size.

The door to the room was mostly closed. One man took up a position opposite the door; the other pushed the door open with his foot from the side of the door.

The men lithely moved into the doorway, their guns covering the corners of the room.

The room was empty.

The thumping noise they heard repeated itself, coming from behind the closed closet door. Exchanging confused glances, the two carefully moved into the room.

From her perch above the door, Sarah silently thanked the construction crew on their attention to detail. Bryce had hidden in that very spot in Chuck's real bedroom the past Thanksgiving.

Sarah fell on the two men from above, managing to knock both off-balance. The man on the right caught himself on Chuck's computer desk, keeping himself from falling but losing his gun in the process. The other man sprawled onto the floor.

Before the man on the desk could recover, Sarah delivered a strong kick with her left foot, flipping the man up over the desk and into the gap between the desk and the wall. Leaving him, she fell upon the man on the floor, dropping a knee into the center of his back. He arched his back in pain as he cried out; she brought her arms together, exhaling in a controlled yell as her hands came together on the sides of his head. He dropped to the floor, unmoving.

Her other opponent was struggling to find a way to get up from the tight quarters behind the desk. Suddenly, the man coiled on his back and launched the light desk towards her; monitor, keyboard and mouse went clattering to the floor as the desk hurtled towards her.

She leapt back to the edge of Chuck's bed to dodge the flying desk, then bounced off the bed over the improvised missile, landing a foot square in the attacker's stomach. Air whooshed out of his lungs. A quick pair of punches rendered him unconscious.

Panting a bit, she blew some stray hair from her eyes as she caught her breath. Another round of thumping from the closet reminded her that Skippy wasn't entirely secure. She picked up the two guns from the floor, walked back over to the closet and opened the door.

Skippy was desperately trying to free himself; his eyes widened when the door opened. She had used her cleverly-designed purse strap to bind his hands behind his knees, keeping him stuck in a seated position. A scarf she had dug from her purse effectively gagged him.

"Maybe I was wrong, Skip. Maybe you wouldn't have made such a good field agent."

* * *

Sarah nervously walked down the hallway on the first floor of the CIA facility. She did the best she could to keep herself composed, but she saw Fulcrum agents everywhere she looked.

She forced herself to give the guards at the security desk a friendly wave, as if nothing was wrong. They smiled back as she passed.

As she left the building and headed for the parking lot, she started to feel better. Still, she kept a careful eye out for agents coming or going from the building.

As she reached the Porsche, she took one last glance around, verifying that there was nobody around. Climbing into the enhanced car, she finally started to relax as she locked the door.

Before she forgot, she removed the book from her purse; she didn't want to be carrying that with her everywhere.

She couldn't resist examining it for a moment. Flipping the pages didn't reveal anything obvious; it looked like a normal book. However, Skippy had taken quite a risk to go after it, so it had to have some value to Fulcrum.

The mystery would need to wait. She reached back behind the passenger seat for the shopping bag that had her sweatshirt in it. Finding the opening, she dropped the book into the bag.

That done, she fastened her seat belt and started the engine. She navigated her way out of the parking lot, trying to remember how to get to her rendezvous with Chuck.

The Los Mellizos henchmen were careful, so much so that Sarah didn't notice them pull out to follow her.


	9. A Struggle for Control

**Scene XIX – Dana Point Streets**

The afternoon sun streamed through the windows on the passenger side of the black Suburban.

As Casey navigated the Dana Point streets back to the freeway, he was chewing on what Jennings had suggested to him. He was still having trouble poking holes in the man's logic. What did it matter what form his sacrifices ended up taking? Casey would sacrifice himself for his country, whatever the cost. He certainly wasn't in the business for the glory, so he didn't care what people thought about him.

Glancing back over at Bartowski, he wondered if that were completely true. For reasons he couldn't quite pinpoint, it was bothering him that Chuck was obviously still upset with him.

The two men had only exchanged a handful of words since heading to the car together. Chuck had sullenly climbed into the car and steadfastly stared out the window ever since, his body language closing him off. The sheer power of the sun limned Bartowski's outline in a bright white halo, lending a strangely surreal, otherworldly quality to the man.

Casey had to admit that he felt a little guilty. The crack about the mom's basement, while a good line and probably accurate, was certainly inappropriate. Coming on the heels of accusing Bartowski of wasting five years of his life, it was a little much for Casey to dump on Chuck, especially unprovoked.

As if reading Casey's thoughts, Chuck spoke. Without shifting his eyes from the passing scenery, he asked, "Did you mean what you said, Casey?"

Caught off guard by the sudden question, Casey was unsure how to respond. He chose to delay for a moment. "How's that?"

Chuck looked over at the agent. "Do you really think I used what happened at Stanford as an excuse to run away and hide? Do you really think I folded 'like a house of cards'?"

It was one thing to zing Chuck during the flow of conversation. It was another for Chuck to ask such naked questions out of the blue. "I don't know everything that happened."

The answer seemed to irritate Chuck even more. "Just forget I asked."

"For Christ's sake, what did I do now?"

"You told me that I was jealous of my ex-classmates and called five years of my life a waste of time. Now, when I ask you about it, you give me some lame line about not having all the information. And that after calling me a coward? Look in the mirror, bub."

"You didn't exactly lay off the accusing."

"The difference, apparently, is that I'll stand by every word I said. Ask me about anything I said, and I'll look you in the eye and defend it."

"It's kind of hard for me to look you in the eye at the moment, Chuck, what with me driving and all."

"You know, Casey, you are so damn literal when it serves your purposes. You know perfectly well that I'm talking about your lame little dodge of my questions, not whether you actually are looking me in the eye. The least you should do is to have the common courtesy either to own up to your little rant or to admit that you were off-base."

Casey's knuckles whitened around the wheel. Every instinct he had told him to fire back at Bartowski, to not let him win any type of victory. However, a small, quiet voice in the back of his mind recognized the truth. In a tone he wasn't used to using, Casey responded, "Maybe you're right."

"Maybe I am," Chuck shot back immediately. He turned to examine the passing foliage again, clearly intent on not saying another word.

Casey had two choices: he could flat-out apologize, which he knew was probably deserved, or he could deflect. It was no surprise which path he chose. "I just don't see how a guy with the brains to get into Stanford could end up spending five years at the local Buy More."

Oddly enough, Chuck seemed to consider Casey's statement thoughtfully before answering, almost as if he was grateful to have a chance to talk about it. "I don't know. In the beginning, it was just something to do, you know? It was a relatively safe place where I could hide from my problems while I tried to heal and become whole again."

Chuck stared down at his lap as he continued. "I had this whole life plan about what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be with, and my supposed best friend took it all away in the matter of about a week. I think that would knock anyone for a loop."

"I can see that."

Chuck thought for a moment. "After a while, I guess it was just easier to let Big Mike tell me what to do rather than to think about what I really wanted my life. The strange thing was that I couldn't even summon the motivation to question what I wanted my life to be. I just let other people tell me what it should be. The people in my life just ordered me around day after day after day and I never did anything about it, even when I knew it was wrong."

The wavy-haired man looked over at Casey. "I guess that's how a person like me ends up working at the Buy More for five years. You forget to stand up for what matters to you. You convince yourself that there aren't any other good options, and you constantly take the easiest path offered, no matter how much it goes against who you really are."

Casey glanced over at Chuck, again a bit bemused by the sunlight silhouetting the man. Just a few minutes ago, Chuck had advised him to look in the mirror. Strangely, at that moment, staring at Chuck somehow felt like he was staring in the mirror.

**Scene XX – Los Angeles Freeways**

Sarah slid her Porsche up the on-ramp onto the freeway.

She hadn't called Director Graham yet; she had put off calling him for a couple of reasons. The first reason was utterly practical: she needed to focus in case more Fulcrum agents were around. She had taken a long and winding path from the CIA facility to the freeway to try to be certain she wasn't being followed. She wasn't taking anything for granted at this point; even though she hadn't managed to spot anyone tailing her, she still kept a nervous eye focused on her rear-view mirror.

However, the main reason for the delay was that she recognized that she was upset she hadn't been informed as to the change in plans with Chuck. The emotion evoked by the idea that Chuck could so quickly be taken from her had been multiplied tenfold by the tension left over from the unexpected attack at the CIA facility.

She was in a bad mood and looking to take it out on somebody. It was usually a bad idea to take it out on your boss, so Sarah had decided to wait until she calmed down a little.

After about twenty minutes of driving, she finally felt like her head was in a better place. She dialed Director Graham, putting him on the speaker so she could focus on the road.

When he picked up, the emotion welled back up. She greeted him with, "What the hell is going on?!"

Apparently, she hadn't waited quite long enough.

"Agent Walker," he replied dryly. "Something wrong?"

"Well, let's see, I was just attacked by Fulcrum agents in the 'secure' bunker that you set up for Chuck without bothering to consult me, so yes, I'd definitely say something is wrong."

"What?!"

"I'll ask again: what the hell is going on?"

There was only silence on the other end.

"Sir?" she asked, her voice taking on a dangerous lilt.

In a resigned tone, Graham said, "The chatter on Fulcrum in the Los Angeles area ramped up a few notches over the past week. That's why we were looking to secure the Intersect."

"Seems like something that we should have been told about."

"Maybe so."

"It also seems like he wouldn't have been very secure."

"Apparently. Is there a mess to clean up?"

"One dead agent by the elevator; he was taken out by the Fulcrum agent who introduced himself as Skip. Skip's the short skinny man lashed down on Chuck's bed between the two big Fulcrum agents. I didn't get their names; we didn't exchange pleasantries."

"I'll take care of it. Anything else?"

"Yes. Why wasn't I consulted about the change in status of my asset?" There was a bit of possessiveness about her tone.

"During your time as his handler, you have shown a predilection to be very protective of 'our' asset. There is concern in certain circles that you might have developed an attachment to Mr. Bartowski."

Sarah worked hard to keep her emotion out of her voice. She could only hope that she was successful. "I suppose it's possible that our cover as boyfriend and girlfriend spilled over into some of our discussions, but I can assure you…"

"That can wait for another time. Right now, we have to figure out where we can safely secure the Intersect. We need to get him moved right away, maybe to a safe house."

Sarah's heart pounded. "Sir, if a CIA facility has been compromised, I can't imagine any of our safe houses would be any better. The agents involved in a transfer can't even be trusted. The only agents who can be trusted at this point are me and Agent Casey."

"Isn't that assessment a little extreme?"

"Three Fulcrum agents just waltzed right into our most secure facility in Los Angeles – and this isn't the first time that facility has been compromised. I don't think it's extreme at all."

There was a long silence on the phone. "You may be right," Graham said thoughtfully. "What do you recommend?"

"Well … I think we need to move carefully. I think we should leave him where he is until we can come up with a plan that makes some sense. There's nothing that suggests that anyone is onto Chuck's cover."

"What about your cover? It doesn't seem particularly intact after the attack at the facility."

Sarah glanced in her review mirror and noticed a familiar black Cadillac. She cursed under her breath. "You may have a point, sir. I'm being tailed."

* * *

The black Suburban had been mostly quiet since Chuck's explanation of how he ended up at the Buy More for five years. Both men were lost in thought as they reached the southern suburbs of Los Angeles.

For his part, Chuck was considering the revelation that he had simply let the years slip away just as easily as the miles were slipping past them now. Sure, Ellie had tried to force some conversations with Chuck to try to shake him from his rut, but he realized now that he had never really been open to the idea of a serious discussion. He had never really gotten over Bryce's betrayal – or Jill's.

Had things changed since the fateful night that he became the Intersect? At first glance, things had changed dramatically: there was now added danger, a pair of bodyguards, and a secret life he had to keep hidden from friends and family.

A more subtle change was a boost to his self-confidence, both from his success in stepping up on missions along with Sarah's apparent feelings for him.

However, had things really changed?

No. He was still mostly letting events control him rather than deciding what he wanted and looking out for his interests. That needed to change. But how?

Snapping out of his daze, he checked their progress towards his rendezvous with Sarah. They were still fifteen minutes away.

* * *

The gravelly voice of Director Graham asked, "They still behind you?"

"Yes, sir. One man, one woman, both of Hispanic descent. Is it possible Los Mellizos has hunted me down?"

"Possible, but remember the one Fulcrum cell that you took down was headed up by Ernesto Gomes, a Venezuelan. There could be more Venezuelans hanging around."

"Well, they seem content to sit back while we're on the freeway. They must be looking to take me alive."

There was a short silence on the other end of the line. "I think it's time to activate the Mousetrap."

"Are you sure, sir?" The Mousetrap was a risky ploy which, if not executed correctly, usually resulted in the death of an agent. There was also a risk to innocent bystanders.

"It's our best hope to shake Fulcrum from your trail. I'll activate the Mousetrap."

"Yes, sir. Walker out."

Almost as if on cue, the Cadillac sped up, quickly pulling alongside her. The pure hatred reflected in the cruelly smirking face of the woman in the passenger seat startled Sarah, but she didn't have time to worry about that: the woman was leveling a pistol at her front tire.

Sarah slammed on her brakes; her phone flew forward out of her lap onto the floorboard.

A shot rang out, ricocheting off the pavement about three feet in front of her car. The Hispanic woman cursed; the Cadillac driver slammed on his brakes as well.

Sarah downshifted and slammed her foot onto the accelerator, barely managing to avoid getting rear-ended by a late-80's Japanese sedan trailing her. She slid the car two lanes to the left into the outside lane, dodging past the rear bumper of the rapidly decelerating Cadillac by mere inches.

She roared down the far left lane, dodging onto the shoulder when necessary to pass. The Cadillac followed; the power of the car and the intermittent traffic kept Sarah and her pursuers in a stalemate.

That was perfect – for the time being. Sarah worried what would happen when she took the chase to the surface streets.

* * *

Normally, Casey enjoyed a quiet ride with Bartowski. However, now Casey found he missed the man's incessant yammering, as its absence left him plenty of time for introspection.

Had Casey simply become too comfortable where he was? Sure, he enjoyed his job. Well, not the paperwork. Or the regulations. Or the bureaucracy, or the interagency squabbling, or the different agendas…

Maybe he didn't enjoy his job so much.

The question became whether Jennings' implied offer was appealing because it was a good offer, or merely because it seemed like a better offer.

One thing was for certain: betrayal was not in Major John Casey's make-up. If he was going to betray his superiors, he had better have a damn good reason for doing so. Right now, he didn't a particularly good reason – his only reason was frustration with a system that needed fixing.

He glanced over at Chuck, who was also lost in thought. He wondered if the two of them weren't so different after all: they were just two men stuck in unsatisfying jobs, with both of them trying to figure out where they wanted to go next with their lives.

* * *

The Porsche and the Cadillac continued to tear down the side of the freeway at high speed. Sarah kept a mental catalog of the traffic pattern to her right; she needed to make the pursuit look good without losing her pursuers – or causing a major accident.

She was relieved to see a break in the traffic ahead; she realized that she wasn't going to get a better chance. Dodging around one last car to make it look like she was trying to shake the pursuit, she cut across four lanes of traffic to the off-ramp, managing to slide through without forcing any cars to slam on their brakes.

The Cadillac was semi-pinned on the should by the car it was passing, but the driver quickly recovered, hitting the brakes and sliding from behind the offending car across the four lanes, picking off the first of the bright orange barrels forming the near edge of the off-ramp with the front corner of the car. Water erupted high into the sky; the grill of the Cadillac split with a resounding crack. The impact didn't materially affect the pursuit, as the cloverleaf exit would have required significant braking anyway.

It did, however, give Sarah a larger working margin of about fifty yards. Collecting her bearings, she made a hard left at the next intersection, checking behind her to ensure her quarry was still chasing her. They were; smoke and squealing tires highlighted the Cadillac's sharp turn.

Three blocks ahead, the light turned yellow as she approached the intersection. Again not wanting to lose her pursuers, Sarah turned right, giving the Cadillac the best chance to follow her. The Cadillac was able to make the turn while the cross street traffic made their left turns.

The streets and sidewalks were both getting more crowded as they approached the shopping district. Sarah still had a comfortable lead on the Cadillac, so she calmly assessed the surroundings, trying to plan out her end game.

As she scanned the sidewalks, the name of a shop caught her eye and held it: "Sticks and Stones".

Sarah's breath caught in her throat. That was where she was supposed to meet Chuck! She was leading the pursuers right to the Intersect!

Turning her eyes back forward, she slammed on her brakes. The car screeched to halt a foot from the stream of pedestrians crossing the intersection. A mother pushing a stroller gave Sarah a dangerous look.

The light was red in all four directions, and the intersection was full of people. She had no where to go.

Glancing in her rear view mirror, she saw the Cadillac closing in.

There was nothing for it; she leapt from the car, keys still in the ignition, and sprinted into the crowd of pedestrians.

This was going to be close.

* * *

Chuck checked his map; he had given Casey the wrong street. "Sorry, Casey, I actually need to be one block over."

The NSA agent pulled to a halt by the curb. His look indicated that he expected Chuck to get out.

Chuck looked at him incredulously. "What, you trust me to walk an entire block without supervision?"

"Not entirely, but you really could use the exercise." Casey smirked, but the smirk lacked its usual bite.

Chuck responded with a small laugh when he understood that was Casey trying to be nice, in his own strange way. The two had never really spoken much in the last thirty minutes, but when Casey made any type of effort, it spoke volumes.

Chuck hopped out of the car, shutting the door with a last wave to Casey. As the Suburban pulled away, he started walking back down the street to the corner and made a left.

Sarah was meeting him on the next block. There was an upscale pool hall called "Sticks and Stones" that he was pretty sure was the answer to one of the riddles. He was hoping to snag some of their chicken wings as well; he was pretty much starving.

Wending his way through a throng of pedestrians, Chuck coasted down the sidewalk to the next intersection, and made another left. Sticks and Stones was located across the street on the near corner of the intersection at the end of the long block. As he spotted his destination, a commotion in front of the pool hall drew his attention.

He spotted a figure dashing through the pedestrians. "Move! Move!" came a familiar voice. The crowds parted enough for him to catch sight of a shock of blonde hair streaming behind the sprinter.

It was Sarah. She was running from something. But what? He looked behind her anxiously, trying to force his way through the crowds as he looked for pursuers.

At the far intersection, a male voice snarled, "Get out of the way!" A pair of gunshots rang out.

All hell broke loose.

People on both sides of the street scattered, screaming and creating a chaotic scene. Stampedes erupted on both sidewalks as pedestrians tried to force their way into stores. Anyone unfortunate enough to fall was trampled by people desperate to get further away from the danger.

In their efforts to escape, a number of people immediately around the gunmen scrambled between parked cars into the street, causing angry drivers unaware of the situation to slam on brakes and lay on their horns. A shiny black SUV whose driver was focused more on her cell phone conversation than the road couldn't stop when the light blue sedan in front of her suddenly stopped in order to avoid several jaywalkers; the sedan jerked forward, causing a college-age man to roll up onto the sedan hood before sliding back down to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. The sounds of squealing brakes and crumpling metal punctuated other pile-ups along the street.

Chuck saw none of this. He tried to force himself against the tide of the stampede and keep an eye on Sarah at the same time, but he wasn't having much success at either. Finally, he forced his way to the curb and climbed up onto the bumper of a delivery truck. He could only stand and watch.

The dissipating crowd allowed Sarah to run uninhibited, but also made her an easier target. The woman pursuer leveled her gun and took a pair of shots. Both missed, one pinging off a lamp pole about halfway down the street and the other burying into a parked car's engine block.

The man that was chasing her prepared to fire. Apparently sensing the danger, Sarah looked up at the store name to her left.

Sarah used three steps to slow her momentum; she suddenly turned and launched herself through the glass front of the closed and mostly empty store, her arms protecting her face and her hands slipped into the sleeves of her coat. Shattered glass danced on the unfinished concrete floor. Dodging between some building materials, Sarah disappeared into the gloom of the store.

Her pursuers ran up to the busted window, decelerating and pulling up short of the opening, their backs against the wall. Quietly, the woman said something to her partner. A second or two later, the two jumped out, both pointing their guns into the interior.

Silence.

The two held their poses as they looked around. Gingerly, the woman stepped over the jagged pieces of glass sticking up from the bottom of the frame like large vicious teeth. She found her footing inside with several crunching footsteps; she covered the room while her partner navigated the glass. He reassumed his stance, two arms holding the gun in front of him.

Silence.

Sarah's pursuers listened for a moment or two. One of them mumbled something in a low voice, and the two disappeared into gloom as well.

Silence.

Chuck was suddenly aware that the street was deserted except for him. He let himself fall from his perch; he dropped between the two parked cars and took a trio of steps into the street.

From the interior, a shout of a female voice resonated, although Chuck couldn't tell who it was. He took a couple more hesitant steps towards the store.

A pair of gunshots sandwiched a loud clanging noise.

Silence.

A gunshot punctuated an explosion that ripped through the store, nearly knocking Chuck to the ground as fireballs roared through the front door and blew out the remaining glass in the store window. A hailstorm of glass flew through the air, striking nearby cars and the ground with a surreal tinkling sound that sounded like hundreds of tiny bells chiming. Pieces of bright pink insulation material, many flaming, drifted to the ground as the heat wave slowly dissipated.

Chuck's face fell. He stared at the remains of the store, the inside flaming mightily.

"Oh my God," he whispered under his breath. "Sarah."


	10. Not What It Seems

**Scene XXI – Shopping District**

Chuck sprinted for the fiery entrance to the store, fully intending to rush inside. Sarah couldn't be dead. She might be hurt, but Sarah Walker always found a way to survive.

He pulled up about ten feet from the entrance; the sheer heat from the blaze pushed him back. He desperately looked around for something to shield his skin, or maybe some water to douse himself before going inside. He was on a street; there was nothing.

Taking several deep breaths, he gathered himself.

As Chuck was about to launch himself forward, a strong hand gripped his arm. He angrily whirled around to find a police officer standing there. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"My girlfriend is in there! I'm going in after her." He turned to run inside, but the officer's grip grew tighter, stopping him cold.

Furious, Chuck whirled back around. "Let me go!"

The officer's face was sympathetic. "I'm sorry, son. It would take a miracle for anyone to survive that blast."

No. Sarah had survived far worse than this in her time. She had to be alive. Chuck, using an ominously quiet voice that he didn't even know he had, warned, "Let. Me. Go."

The grip remained firm. "I am sorry." Determination and genuine regret dominated the officer's expression.

Several sirens sounded in the distance. Chuck didn't hear them. He yanked as hard as he could, trying to free himself.

Before Chuck knew what had happened, he was pinned on the ground on his stomach, facing the store. The man had used a move that Sarah had vainly tried to teach him to counter a few times; even if he had gotten the hang of how to defend against the move, he never would have expected it.

Chuck struggled futilely to find a way to escape the officer's grasp. His movements became more violent and more desperate, to no avail. "Sarah!!"

The officer refused to let him up. Chuck howled in frustration, unable to escape.

Time ceased to have any meaning; things moved in slow motion around him. Every part of his psyche thrashed in denial, unwilling to believe what he had just seen.

Flames licked the air as they hungrily fed on whatever it could find. Smoke hovered around the storefront, as if it was just another curious bystander. People stared and pointed at conflagration, miraculously contained to the one store. Stunned, the spectators covered their mouths and voiced occasional sounds of shock. A few even directing curious looks towards the police officer pinning down the lanky thrashing figure; trying to figure out how the two fit into what had happened.

Little of it registered with Chuck; he only saw the fire that raged mercilessly through the store that Sarah had entered. Nothing else mattered.

Chuck's desperation gradually gave way to anguish as the reality of the situation sunk in. His struggles weakened, but his eyes remained fixed on the store, hoping against hope to see Sarah somehow emerge from the flames unscathed.

She was Sarah. She could do anything. However, with each passing moment, Chuck knew the odds of her being alive were dropping … and dropping fast.

Suddenly, firefighters were attaching hoses to a nearby hydrant. Two jets of water streamed into the store, generating angry hisses from the protesting flames. He heard the sound of objects being knocked around and blown apart from the sheer force of the water. Chuck's struggles intensified in response to the chaos, as if freeing himself could somehow help to rescue Sarah.

The bulk of the flames were extinguished, but an impossible amount of smoke still poured out of the store, obscuring everything. A pair of firefighters, a tall black man and a shorter white woman, went into the gutted, smoke-filled store. Each was covered head-to-toe in protective gear including a breathing apparatus; the woman carried a heavy blanket while the man carried a large red axe.

A few minutes later the two emerged, lugging a prone body cradled between them in the blanket. They lowered the blanket to the ground in front of a pair of paramedics. The woman shook her head before picking up another blanket; the pair disappeared into the smoky interior again.

The paramedics opened the blanket and gave the body a cursory inspection. Their expressions clearly conveyed that there was nothing they could do; they wrapped the body up again.

Chuck shook his head in dismay. _That wasn't her. Sarah was all right. She had to be all right. _

The firefighters emerged again, laden with another blanket-wrapped body. The scene with the paramedics repeated itself. Chuck shook his head, still not wanting to believe it. His imploding heart was a leaden weight of pain that pulled his chest and chin inexorably towards the ground. "Sarah," he whispered brokenly, his lips almost low enough to kiss the pavement.

The firefighters emerged again, motioning urgently to the paramedics. One of the medics grabbed his kit while the other grabbed a rolled-up stretcher from the ambulance.

The smallest ray of hope shone in Chuck's heart. He watched each firefighter quickly fit one of the paramedics with a mask and a small oxygen tank; the four men rushed back into the store.

Reinvigorated, Chuck's struggles intensified. "Let me go! You have to let me go!"

"No," the policeman answered. "You can help her most by letting these men do their work. If she is alive, and that would be a miracle, she won't be in good shape."

Given some hope that Sarah might have survived, Chuck calmed down and started acting a bit more reasonably. "Will you at least let me up? I'm going to have a bruise in my back for a week."

The officer looked doubtfully down at Chuck. "OK, but I'm going to shoot you in the leg if you start heading anywhere near that store."

"All right, all right." Chuck gratefully took a deep breath as the knee disappeared from his back. He pushed himself to his feet a moment later, shifting from one foot to the other as he waited for the men to reemerge.

More than anything, Chuck wanted to go check the two bodies lying on the sidewalk, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Part of him was terrified of what he would find. _It had to be Sarah alive in the store. It had to be._

The men were taking entirely too long to return. He nervously paced back and forth, cognizant of the policeman's threat. Every few seconds there was a new noise from the remains of the store, causing Chuck to jerk his head hopefully. The firefighters were checking that the fire hadn't damaged the structure of the building to the point where a collapse was possible. An irrational part of him was angry that the firemen kept making noises that sent his heart racing, and that they weren't doing anything to help Sarah.

After an interminable amount of time, Chuck saw the back of one of the paramedics emerge from the gloom. The man took step after careful step as he navigated through the debris on the floor of the store, carrying a stretcher with the help of the other medic.

As they stepped through the empty door frame, out of the store and into the sunlight, Chuck caught glimpse of an unmoving body covered by a blanket up to the chin - along with long, blonde hair streaked with soot streaming off one side.

His heart leapt.

Chuck took a step towards Sarah without checking with the officer; the iron grip returned to his upper arm. "Not yet, son. Let the paramedics do their work." Chuck didn't like the idea, but the implacable officer wasn't about to let him go.

The medics set the stretcher directly onto a rolling gurney. They slid a mask over Sarah's face to help her breathe and set up an intravenous feed of clear liquid, inserting the needle into her arm under the blanket.

Focused on the stretcher with Sarah, Chuck was suddenly surprised to see a reporter and a cameraman near the other two bodies. The reporter had pulled back the blankets back to reveal the faces of the deceased; the cameraman was shooting down, capturing the faces for the local news.

One of the medics angrily went over to the cameraman and pushed him back while shouting angry words about having respect for the dead. He shoved the cameraman away from the scene, but not before the man had gotten a shot of Sarah as well. Part of Chuck knew he should be worried about that, but right now, all he could think about was Sarah's health. Blown covers could be dealt with later.

The policeman let Chuck go as he left to help clear the angry reporters from the scene. It took a moment for Chuck to realize that he was free to act; when he did, he rushed over to Sarah.

As Chuck came upon the stretcher, his anxious smile quickly faded into concern. Sarah looked terrible. Her face, like her hair, was blackened by soot from the explosion, but was also covered with red and white heat blisters and peeling skin. In fact, it was nearly impossible to recognize her, especially with the mask across her face. He longed for her to open her eyes or twitch a muscle so he could know that she was OK, but she didn't move.

"Excuse me. You can't be here," the other medic said, continuing his work and barely even glancing at Chuck.

"She's my girlfriend." The words felt strange coming out of his mouth; it was the first time he had used the term for Sarah where it actually was the truth, and here she was, badly burnt and lying on the stretcher. The whole scene was surreal.

"What's your name?" the medic asked.

"Chuck. How is she?" Staring down at her, he was afraid he knew the answer.

"She's had a rough time of it, Chuck. We need to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible."

"Can I hold her hand?" Chuck asked.

"That's not a good idea. But you can ride along with us."

He would have to settle for that. Almost believing she was dead a minute earlier, he was happy to settle for that, although he longed to do more. "She's not moving at all," he observed.

"We've given her something to keep her still," the medic said. "Given the burns on her body, it's best for her to remain as motionless as possible. More comfortable, too."

Chuck wondered if her training might lead her to need a stronger dose to be comfortable. "She's kind of resistant to medications. Are you sure you gave her enough?"

The corner of the medic's mouth turned up slightly. "She'll be comfortable. Let's go," he added, the last part meant for the other medic, who had just returned from his altercation with the reporters.

The two pushed the rolling bed over to the ambulance. Lining up the gurney with some raised tracks on the floor of the truck, the medic pushing from the rear gave the gurney a slightly stronger shove, forcing the legs to fold up and allowing the bed to roll directly into the back. One of the medics jumped in and indicated Chuck should do the same. Awkwardly, he climbed in the opposite side. The other medic shut the doors behind them.

Chuck took a seat on a long bench up towards Sarah's head as the medic in back fastened down the gurney. He heard the other medic climb in through the driver's door; soon, the truck lurched forward, sirens wailing, as the vehicle pushed its way between fire trucks and spectators before it accelerated down the street.

* * *

Chuck was staring down at Sarah from his seat on the bench in the back of the ambulance, trying to assess just how badly she was hurt.

She seemed to be breathing fairly easily, if a bit weakly. From what Chuck had learned about burn victims from Ellie over the years, he thought that was a good sign. Also, the paramedic in the back of the truck seemed to be fairly calm. He was muttering some things into a communicator, presumably letting the hospital know they were on the way.

Despite the good signs, he couldn't feel quite as calm when looking at Sarah's face. She was still as death, other than the occasional shallow breath, and the explosion had clearly gotten the better of her. He realized she might scar badly or lose some of her hair. He didn't care.

Assorted memories flashed through his mind. With perfect clarity, he remembered looking up at the Nerd Herd desk to see her for the first time. He remembered her anger and strength when he had questioned whether he could trust her. He remembered the various times she had looked after him, carefully explaining how things worked or breaking things to him gently rather than just ordering him around, as any other agent would have done. He remembered the way she had protected him, the way that she had saved his life time and again.

Mostly, he remembered the way she so often made him feel like the most important person in the room. She wasn't perfect about it – there were times she had withdrawn when she was afraid of admitting her feelings to herself or showing them to others. Still, he had no illusions

In that moment, everything unimportant was stripped away: the Intersect, the spy world, the complicated nature of their relationship. She was what mattered. He didn't know what he would do if he lost her. He couldn't lose her.

He badly needed to tell her that. He had no idea whether she would hear him, but he needed to try.

He knelt down as best he could in the cramped space. He began to whisper into her ear, so that if she could hear, she would be the only one.

"You know Sarah, when I originally found out about … everything, I viewed it as some kind of cruel curse. All of a sudden, I was in danger all the time, spending my days in a world I didn't understand. Honestly, I hated it at first."

Chuck swallowed hard. "As time went on, though, I found myself doing things that I never would have believed possible, and I came to see all this as a kind of gift. I had been in a rut since the whole Stanford thing, and I began to wonder if this was just some karmic, Zen-like repayment to balance the ledger. After all, I was starting to believe in myself for the first time in forever and that's something that never would have happened, if Bryce hadn't sent me the Intersect.

"But lately, I've come to realize that, when you said the Intersect wasn't the reason that I've started getting good at my 'other job', you were right. The Intersect wasn't what gave me confidence in myself again. It didn't believe in me or help me out of tough spots or save my life; and it certainly wasn't what wakes me up smiling most mornings. The thought of spending a few precious minutes with the Intersect isn't what keeps me going during the tough days.

"Bryce may have sent me the Intersect, Sarah, but that wasn't the gift. You were the gift. I was lucky when I became the Intersect only because it meant I got to have you in my life. And I'm not at all ready to not have you in my life, so I need you to keep fighting, OK?"

Sarah's eyes, crusted with burn blisters and peeling skin, slowly flickered open to reveal remarkably bright blue eyes. In the midst of an unfamiliar face covered in terrible burns, he recognized those eyes – and those eyes clearly recognized him. His face erupted into a glad smile.

Her lips, crusted with chapped skin and traces of blood, slowly parted as she took in a breath. With a low, croaking voice, she said, "I'm so sorry, Chuck."

His smile took on a tender tinge; he found himself wishing he could hold her hand. He settled for stroking her hair, remarkably undamaged, if very dirty. "Sorry? For what?"

Sarah shifted her neck and cleared her throat. In a normal voice, she said, "For putting you through all that."

Chuck was puzzled at her sudden seeming strength. "Wait, what?"

Sarah turned her head to look at the paramedic. "I assume we're clear?"

With an amused glance at Chuck before looking at her, the medic nodded.

Sarah sat up. The blanket dropped down, revealing perfectly undamaged skin and clean clothes from the neck down. She stretched her jaw and started scratching; bits of 'skin' and 'blister' and other gunk rained down. "God, that stuff itches. Can we get it off now?"

"Turn 'em off, James," the medic called up front. The sirens cut off moments later.

Chuck finally put it all together. "You mean…" _Of course. She was fine the whole time._ He pushed himself back into his seat and slumped down, throwing his arms into the air in dismay. "I'm a complete idiot."

"Hey," she called immediately, getting him to look back at her. "You're not an idiot," she said intently, those brilliant eyes conveying all kinds of meaning beyond what she was saying.

Chuck just stared at her for a long moment, trying to sort it all out. Finally, he sat back up, intending to lean over to kiss her to show how glad he was that she was OK. However, as he leaned over, his eyes dropped down to her lips and he quickly stopped. "Maybe you should get that stuff off your face," he mumbled awkwardly.

He realized that it was probably a fortunate break that the make-up slowed him down. With the other agent sitting right there, he had already done enough damage with his whispered speech – even if the agent couldn't hear what he said, there was likely no mistaking the emotion on Chuck's face – and attempting a kiss on top of it was truly stupid. Her reaction when he started to move towards her, like a guilty teenager scared that her parents might catch them, only confirmed that notion.

He leaned back on the bench and stared gloomily into space, wishing there was a hole he could crawl into. Despite her reassurances, he felt like a complete and utter fool.


	11. So Simple and So Hard

**Scene XXII – Back of an Ambulance**

The "medic" went to work, opening his case to reveal a variety of make-up and liquids and tools. He spread a large cloth over her lap. After pouring some liquid onto a rag, he started rubbing her face, and a rainstorm of spirit gum cascaded onto the cloth.

Sarah looked at Chuck every opportunity she had. She desperately wanted – no, needed – to let Chuck know how much what he said meant to her. However, those opportunities were few and far between, as her eyes were often closed or forced to look in certain directions as the make-up was removed.

When she was able to look over at him, he resolutely focused on the ground in front of him, refusing to make eye contact with her. He had little reason to be embarrassed; after all, the entire purpose of the operation had been to convince people that she had been badly hurt and possibly killed, and the CIA was exceedingly good at that type of operation.

Still, she knew he wouldn't be able to start getting past it until she could explain it to him, and she couldn't risk doing that in front of the other agent. For all the progress Chuck had made, he was still overly emotional at times.

Truth be told, she was fairly emotional after Chuck's touching speech; it took all her training to keep that hidden.

As the medic went back to his case for something, she tried to catch Chuck's eye again so she could at least give him another reassuring look. He didn't notice, or at least chose not to acknowledge it.

She sighed. Even that didn't get Chuck to look at her.

* * *

The paramedics drove Chuck and Sarah to her car, which had somehow moved nearly a mile away from its previous location to a shady parking spot in front of a church. A passerby gave the pair a curious glance as Chuck jumped out of the back of the ambulance, but shrugged it off and kept walking.

Sarah lingered in the open back door a moment longer, talking to the medic / agent for nearly a minute before dropping onto the street. With a last friendly wave, she shut the door and slapped the van twice with an open hand to let the drive know she was clear.

As the ambulance drove off, she turned to face Chuck. "Well, that was fun," she said cheerily.

Chuck's posture communicated his dejection. "Yeah, until I mucked things up."

"Oh, stop it. You didn't muck anything up. You had no way of knowing that I wasn't hurt." She indicated that they should get into her car.

His downcast expression as he slipped into the passenger seat clearly conveyed that he was unconvinced, that he should have somehow known.

With her door shut, Sarah directed Chuck a sympathetic look and explained, "Look, I told the agent that our cover is boyfriend - girlfriend and that you had no clue what I was doing, both of which are completely true. That smoothed everything over. It explained everything about the way you acted, even if you were a little mopey at the end."

"Thanks; I feel so much better now. Can you at least explain what just happened?"

"That storefront was a set-up that the CIA calls a Mousetrap. I lured two people I wanted to capture there. The explosion was triggered to cover up the capture."

"Wait, the two guys chasing you – they're actually alive?!"

"That's right. Other agents were waiting in the store; they tranquilized my two pursuers when they came into the back room. We moved their bodies into covered bunkers in the floor, fired a couple more shots and triggered the explosion. We pulled them back out once the firemen extinguished the flames. The two will be moved somewhere safe for questioning. Meanwhile, our 'firemen', 'medics' and 'police' will clean up the rest of the scene."

"The cop was an agent, too? Wow." _Well, that explains the familiar take-down move he used on me._

"How do you think he got there so quickly?"

"Who wasn't an agent around there? Besides me, of course."

She shot him a look of reproach for the self-pity in his tones. "The reporters. We just tipped them off."

"I still don't get it. Why go through all the trouble?"

"A couple of reason. There were dozens of witnesses on that street. They saw the two people running after me with guns drawn, which means the chase attracted a lot of attention. That type of thing doesn't go away on its own, but the explosion will get the witnesses to believe that the people were killed and one was very seriously injured. A cover story will be leaked to the local news. Case closed."

"And the zombie-like, horror-movie-style skin peeling and burns?"

"Most witnesses won't have gotten a good look at me as I ran down the street, but there's always a chance that somebody could identify me. So, we let the cameraman shoot a picture of me lying on the stretcher. Between the make-up and the mask over my face, it will be easy to doctor a cadaver to look close enough to me to fool any of the witnesses, especially if they get a look at the picture of me on television.

"More importantly, these two had the element of surprise when they started tailing me. We still don't know why the two were chasing me, or even who they work for. The reported deaths and injuries will create enough confusion to shift the advantage back on our side: it will be tough for their bosses to figure out what really happened, giving us a chance to extract some answers from the agents we captured and figure out our next move."

The word 'extract' didn't sound particularly pleasant; Chuck chose not to dwell on it. "I just can't get my head around it, Sarah. You were dead, then you were terribly burned, and now … I just don't …"

Chuck's phone rang, interrupting his thought. He recognized the ring tone, so he held up a single finger as he reluctantly pulled out his phone. "Hey."

"Hey, where are you?" Ellie asked. "I'd figure you and Sarah would've been back by now; the clues today were pretty easy."

"We, ah, got hung up." He looked at the time on the phone: it was 5:45, and the two of them only had one letter!

"Do you have time to swing by the store? Awesome and his friends are tearing through the beer at a record pace – and that's saying something." As if on cue, Chuck heard the frat brothers let out a rowdy, unified yell at something happening in the apartment.

"Think Griff will give us an extension on the 7:00 deadline? It's gonna be tight."

"For beer? Are you kidding me? I'm thinking 'yes'. Heck, by the time you get here, they might be ready to hand you the trophy."

_Well, that's about the only way we're winning_, Chuck thought gloomily. "OK, sis', we'll stop off."

"See you soon!" -click-

"Sarah, we've gotta move. We've got about an hour to find as many letters as we can … and a couple of cases of decent-quality beer."

"What?" She was clearly confused about the beer.

"Let's go. If we don't show up with more than one letter, we're toast."

* * *

Chuck felt a little ill as they turned onto the street of the apartment complex at 7:08. They had only had enough time to make three stops, one for the beer and two for letters. How were they possibly going to explain this? They had only solved three of the eleven clues.

Sarah had seemed unconcerned. "Relax," she had said with her typical reassuring manner as they had driven back. "I've got it under control."

He trusted her, but still was confused how it could possibly be under control – until they pulled into a parking spot across the street from the front of the apartment complex. A young man in a pair of jeans and a casual long-sleeve shirt loitered near the arched entry way.

"Stay here, Chuck," Sarah ordered. She got out and crossed the street.

"Wait in the car, Chuck," he muttered to himself. Trying not to appear nervous, he locked the doors and glanced around. As he had learned the hard way, it was rarely much safer in the car.

This was one of the rare exceptions. He watched Sarah talk to the young man; both wore fairly serious expressions as they began to speak. The man handed Sarah an envelope, shook her hand and offered what seemed like a grateful smile.

The young man walked away up the hill. Sarah crossed the street again, motioning that Chuck could get out.

"What was that about?" Chuck asked, working to collect the beer from the trunk.

"This envelope holds ten of the eleven letters. I sent a team of analysts the list of clues after we got pulled away on separate missions today. They went out and claimed letters for us, just in case we needed a little help." She dropped the envelope on top of the stack of beer in Chuck's arms and headed back over to the driver's side.

"Good thing," Chuck said a bit unenthusiastically. He still felt sick to his stomach, just in a different way. "We really used CIA analysts to help solve a scavenger hunt?"

"Let me tell you: they were happy for the work. That guy was telling me that the analysts haven't had that much fun in a long time. He specifically asked that we send the second set of clues tomorrow so they can solve those as well, whether or not we need their help. Asset #37927 scored some points with them today." Sarah ducked back into the car, reached behind the driver's to extract the large shopping bag.

Chuck still felt sick to his stomach, knowing they had to go lie to his friends and family. Learning that he had an asset number, something he probably should have figured out by now, didn't help matters any.

Sarah was sensitive to his feelings. "Look, I know you don't like lying to your family and friends, but this is as much for their protection as yours. They can't know that you were off working for the government today. Besides, you and I both know that you would have solved all the clues."

"That's not the point, Sarah. It's just another way that my life is getting stolen away from me. I mean, after the other night … I was really looking forward to spending time alone with you today."

"I was, too. Why do you think we bothered stopping off to collect the clues at the end?"

Chuck looked over at her with a questioning look.

She gave him a smile. "It was fun."

That made him smile more than a little bit.

"Chuck, what we do often means sacrifices, especially sacrifices in our personal life. It just means we have to cherish the time we do get to spend together a little more."

"Like now?"

Her grin grew. "Like now."

His smile twisted into a bit of a grimace. "OK, but can we take the beer inside? My arms can't handle much more cherishing."

Sarah laughed.

**Scene XXIII –Casa Bartowski**

With Sarah in tow, Chuck lugged the two cases of beer through the front door to the greetings of their friends and the cheering of many of Devon's college buddies. He smiled through gritted teeth in response, half-setting and half-dropping the beer onto the kitchen table to the grateful relief of his aching arms.

"Nice work on the beer, Bartowski," Griff said, "but I couldn't help but notice that you missed the 7:00 deadline. That'll be a time penalty tomorrow."

The crowd jeered Chuck and Sarah. Griff smirked.

Chuck assessed the room; he quickly responded, "Well, I guess if we miss the deadline, you guys miss the beer." He picked up the beer and started heading back towards the door.

The crowd's mood turned ugly in a hurry. Ellie and Anna joined in the booing, directed more at Griff than at Chuck.

Griff just grinned. "All right, all right, no time penalty."

The crowd cheered as Chuck pivoted and returned the beer to the kitchen table with a smile. "See how easy that was?" he asked. He set the beer on the table; he tore open the top box and grabbed a pair of bottles for him and Sarah.

The two said their hellos to a few people. Sarah exchanged friendly one-armed hugs with Ellie and Anna before tugging on Chuck's sleeve, reminding him that they needed to stash the shopping bag that she carried in his room. Chuck held up a finger to an animated Devon, eager to boast about his successes that day, and followed Sarah back to his room.

With the door safely shut behind him, Chuck asked Sarah, "How are we supposed to talk about the clues we solved?"

She pulled the envelope out of the bag and handed it to him. "There's a sheet in there describing the solutions."

Chuck set down the beers and quickly extracted the sheet as Sarah went to his closet; he scanned the list. "Looks like we were on the right track with most of our guesses on the clues," he said a bit glumly. A beeping noise and the sound of a hydraulic lift activating distracted him. "What was that?"

He walked over to the closet and looked over Sarah's shoulder. In the center of the closet, a small, secure-looking column with a digital keypad had risen from the floor. "Sarah, what is that?"

"Secure storage," Sarah said.

"I'm sorry; you had a secure storage chamber installed in my bedroom closet?!"

"About two weeks ago," Sarah said. Chuck saw her enter the code 0-2-1-8-8-2. The lid opened, revealing a surprisingly deep chamber. She carefully lowered the shopping bag in. "Always useful to have around," she said with a tight grin.

"I'm sure the next tenants will love it."

"I'm guessing we'll have it removed by the time there are new tenants." She pushed the lid shut, pressing a red button near the pad to lower the chamber back into the ground. The wood panel glued to the lid fit nearly seamlessly within the floor; she artfully scattered two pairs of Chuck's shoes to finish hiding the chamber.

"Too bad for the landlord; he probably could have upped the rent. What does an apartment with a CIA-installed secure storage vault command these days?"

Chuck glanced through the letters in the envelope: I, O, O, A, R, T, Y, F, R, and G. In the past, it had been impossible to solve the puzzle on the first day: more than half the letters were still missing, and the arrangement of the letters would be revealed, hang-man style, until they received the clue sheet for day two. Still, Chuck always liked to look and take a crack at the puzzle.

At the moment, he was stumped.

He was so engrossed with re-arranging the letter cards that Sarah was able to walk past him without him noticing. She turned back and called to him. "C'mon, Chuck, the party awaits."

Sarah had the ability to take his breath away in many situations, but he typically found himself most stunned by her beauty when she first entered a room. There was just something about seeing her for the first time in a while; it was almost as if he had forgotten how beautiful she truly was.

Something about his intense focus on the puzzle made this moment just like the ones where she first walked into a room. When Chuck's eyes shifted from the jumble of letters to the stunning blonde, her friendly smile stole his breath away.

After a moment, his awestruck expression faded into an intense, slightly hungry look. He took an unconscious step towards her.

Recognizing his change in emotion, Sarah's smile made a similar shift, although a tinge of nervousness was mixed into her expression.

Slowly, almost as if wary of frightening her, he reduced the distance between them step by step. Her eyes seemed trapped by his. She just couldn't seem to pull her eyes away from him as he closed the gap.

He stopped, his feet placed just outside hers, her body inches away from his. He heard her exhale somewhat sharply, as if her control had momentarily deserted her.

He slipped his right hand onto her hip; his palm could sense her body quiver with tension. He leaned downward towards her, his eyes shutting as his lips neared hers.

He felt her fingertips on his mouth, firmly stopping him from getting any closer.

His eyes shot open uncertainly, searching out hers for an explanation. She had been sending out all kinds of signals. What had happened?

Her eyes were apologetic, but firm.

Chuck, deciding he had done something wrong, looked to escape. "Well, I guess we should get out there," he said, not even trying to control the hurt in his voice. He stepped around her, intending to head for the door.

Strangely, she stepped further into the room. "Actually, Chuck, we need to discuss our cover."

He pulled up as he reached for the door, his head tilting back with frustration. He was hardly in the mood after the aborted kiss; this couldn't be anything good. "What about our cover, Agent Walker?"

He heard a desk drawer open behind him. "Your sister asked me this morning if everything was OK between us."

Chuck was puzzled; he didn't remember Sarah and Ellie talking that morning. "Well, that's Ellie for you: always looking out for me." He turned around, surprised to see Sarah standing, staring at him with pained eyes.

It was immediately clear to Chuck: she hadn't wanted to cut him off.

In a completely professional tone, Sarah said, "We'll probably need to tweak our cover at the party a bit." Meanwhile, she scribbled a note on a pad of paper and held it up for Chuck to see. "Sorry. Bugs. Casey. Wanted to." Her eyes again added so much emotion. She lowered the pad, and scribbled again. She had added "Really" with a double-underline in front of "Wanted to."

Finally understanding what was going on, his eyes turned caring, if still not completely free of disappointment. Getting the hang of the dual conversation, he kept his tone flat as he replied, "You're the expert. What do we need to do?"

She scribbled on the pad again, "Trust me?"

Chuck nodded. _Of course._

"We'll need to show a little PDA at the party. I know you're not that comfortable with PDA. I'm sorry." Her tone was professional, but it was her eyes that told him everything he needed to know.

"We all have to make sacrifices, right?" His eyes reinforced his double-meaning.

"Yes, we do," with a slightly sad undertone. She scribbled, "Just follow my lead."

They stood there and stared across the room at each other for a long moment. Despite what she told him, both with her eyes and her scribbled messages, Chuck felt like his heart might break.

This was all so hard.

* * *

About an hour later, Chuck was catching up with Ellie and Devon. Chuck had been a little worried about how he was going to be able to discuss the various clue solutions that the CIA had provided, but Devon's domineering conversational style and enthusiasm about the game meant that Chuck would have had a tough time getting a word in edgewise if he had wanted to … and he certainly didn't want to. He and Ellie were content to let Devon ramble about how much fun the day had been; the two of them shared a smile.

Sarah walked up. "Excuse me," she said to Devon and Ellie. "I need to borrow Chuck for a minute."

"No problem," Ellie said with a smile. She watched as Sarah took Chuck by the hand as she led her brother away.

Devon continued rambling excitedly about the day, but Ellie was only half-listening to her fiancé as she watched Sarah and Chuck walk to the back corner of the dining room. It was in her nature to worry about her brother, and she was feeling especially protective of him since the strangeness of Sarah not showing up for Valentine's dinner.

Chuck became the slightest bit wild-eyed at something Sarah said; for a moment, Ellie thought her worst fears about the couple were coming true - again. Instead, Sarah rose up on her toes and kissed Chuck.

This was no ordinary kiss. This was a kiss that suggested that the two hadn't kissed for weeks, even though Ellie had seen the couple locked in a similar embrace just two nights prior. The two pulled each other close, hungrily kissing as if their lives depended on it.

This was a kiss that really belonged behind closed doors.

She was surprised that her brother, never a big fan of public displays even after dating Jill for years, would so fervently throw himself into a kiss in the middle of a party. He was kissing her like he wondered if he would ever have another chance to kiss her again.

Ellie's fears had evaporated, and had been replaced by an irrational bit of jealousy. She elbowed Devon in the ribs. "Why don't you kiss me like that?" Ellie asked.

Devon looked across the room at his future brother-in-law and his girlfriend. "Wow, I didn't know your bro had that in him."

Ellie didn't either, but she was glad to discover he did. She smiled.

One of Devon's frat brothers yelled, "Get a room!" Neither Chuck nor Sarah heard the comment; they were too busy clinging to each other, staring into each other's eyes as if trying to figure out what came next.

* * *

The kiss provoked a number of different reactions in the various party-goers; Chuck chose to ignore them all. If the only place he could kiss Sarah was in the middle of a crowded party, he wasn't about to let a personal hang-up slow him down. Not on a day that he thought he had lost her.

Still, he stood by his previous assessment: this was all so hard.

As the two mingled, he did notice that the way Sarah held his hand was somehow different than other times they had held hands in the past. It seemed to change, with no discernible pattern. One moment she would hold his hand loosely, almost tenderly. In another moment, she would squeeze his hand so tightly that it hurt. In other moments her fingers would playfully slide along his, distracting him from their conversations.

In every case, he would look over at her, and her face would reveal nothing. He was puzzled until he realized that she was deliberately telegraphing the way she was feeling about him in a given moment through her hand: I care so much for you, I don't ever want to let you go, I want to take you somewhere and … he swallowed hard. The room was suddenly very warm.

Sensing his reaction to the games her fingers were currently playing with his hand, her poker face slipped for the first time since their kiss, revealing a sly little smile. Chuck couldn't help but smile back, albeit a little nervously.

The two circulated for a while, hands continually intertwined, before the party started to get a little boisterous. Jeff and Lester were getting along surprisingly well with Devon and his frat buddies as they played drinking games around the kitchen table. It appeared that Jeff was playing to lose, while Lester had given up on keeping his partner sober and was drinking nearly as much. The raucous laughter kept amplifying with each roll of the dice; Anna finally rolled her eyes and brought Morgan over to say goodbye to Chuck and Sarah.

"Leaving so soon?" Chuck asked the couple.

"I think so," Morgan said in a way that indicated he had little say in the matter.

"I've seen Jeff and Lester drink like this before; it never has a pretty ending. Besides," she said with a sideways glance at Morgan through her long eyelashes, "I can think of far better ways to spend a Saturday night."

Chuck's eyebrow rose as he looked at his friend. It took Morgan a second, but he finally caught Anna's meeting. "Right!" he said, clasping his hands loudly in front of him. "Guess we'll see you guys tomorrow. C'mon, Anna."

Morgan and Anna practically ran to the door, neither bothering to say goodbye to anyone else … including Ellie, Chuck noticed. Maybe his friend was finally outgrowing the crush on his sister, or maybe Anna engineered their exit to prevent Morgan from saying goodbye. She was just conniving enough to do that.

Sarah stepped in front of Chuck. "You know, I have to agree with Anna: there are far better ways to spend a Saturday night." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

Chuck felt his heart stop, then start pounding in his ears. Could she really mean…

She reached down and took his hand. With a firm grasp, she led him to his bedroom, and shut the door behind them.

* * *

_Ed. Note: __Big thanks to natty and tshadow for their beta work ... all mistakes are mine. Oh, and I still don't own __"Chuck"._


	12. Struggling with the Status Quo

_Thanks to GCG for the beta ..._

* * *

**Scene XXIV – Casa Bartowski, Chuck's Room**

Chuck felt Sarah let go of his hand. He heard the door shut.

He refused to look at her.

"Chuck?" Sarah called to him, a little confused by his body language.

Bugs or no bugs, Chuck was going to speak freely. "I'm not going to turn around."

"Why's that?" she asked softly, taking a couple steps towards him, the sound of her shoes seeming particularly loud on the hardwood floor.

"Because if I turn around, you'll have that apologetic expression on your face. And then you'll say those five words."

She placed a gentle hand on his right shoulder. He reached across his body to take the fingers of her hand in his left hand, pressing against them tightly.

"I don't know how I can let you leave tonight. Not after thinking that you might be dead. Not after …" He trailed off, finally acceding to the reality of the situation. It frustrated him that he couldn't say what he wanted to say while in the confines of his own room.

He willed the moment to last, knowing what was coming. Still the words came, and came all too soon.

"Walk me to my car?" Sarah asked. He could hear her sad but tender smile; the caring tone forcing him into a bittersweet smile of his own.

The smile faded all too quickly.

"I really hate those words."

* * *

The two wordlessly exited through his window and began a slow walk across the courtyard. Sarah was performing her usual routine in moments like these, playing with her fingers as she searched for the right words. Chuck hadn't truly been himself since she had activated the Mousetrap earlier that day; she strongly suspected that no words could make things right.

Still, she needed to find a way to remain strong: that would make things easier on Chuck - and keep them from making a mistake that might ruin everything. With Casey around, any one slip could be the end for them.

"This sucks," she heard him mutter.

She silently agreed.

Her expression became even more conflicted as they passed under the archway. She stopped searching for the right words and instead searched for a way to fill the growing silence. "Chuck, I know this is hard. What makes it worse is that there are a few work things we need to discuss."

"Well, I'll be glad for the distraction."

"Liar."

"I never could lie to you." His tone held the slightest hint of humor.

"I'm pretty sure that's the first time you tried."

"Well, the first time since the Doctor was in town and I thought you might be looking to kill me."

She grinned; she had almost forgotten about that time, when they were first learning to trust each other. "We've come a long way since then."

He stopped and turned to look directly at her for the first time since the door to his room shut. "Have we?"

The direct question caught her off-guard. The probing undertone delved into areas she didn't dare explore right then. She needed to be strong for both of them, which meant moving onto more comfortable subjects. Safer subjects.

Sarah indicated that the pair should resume walking; he obliged. She said, "In the storage vault in your room is a book. That book came from a pile of items that we confiscated from Andon Minh. For some reason, Fulcrum was after it. I need you to examine the book tonight and see if you flash on anything. You saw the code to the vault?"

Chuck nodded. "0-2-1-8-8-2," he said, repeating the digits that he saw her enter earlier.

Sarah returned the nod, trying to keep a straight face as he recited the combination. "Check out the book, and let me know if you find anything."

"Sure. What are you going to do?"

"I need to go help out with the interrogation of the people who were chasing me today. They're not talking, and the hope is that my presence might trigger some type of reaction."

"Any idea who they are?"

"We were able to confirm that they work for a South American drug cartel called Los Mellizos. We don't know why they were after me. I assume you didn't flash on them today?"

"No. I didn't get a good look at them, and I would have told you."

"I figured, but it didn't hurt to ask."

"Could it have anything to do with your last mission with Bryce?"

After hesitating for a bit, she said, "Chuck…"

"I know, I know, you can't tell me … forget I asked." He sounded surly. She fought to remain strong. One of them had to.

The two reached the end of the sidewalk. They checked for traffic; finding none, they crossed the street, taking a position under a street lamp near her car.

Chuck looked at her with sad eyes. She felt her eyes react, growing sadder in response to his. A hint of guilt colored his expression, which only threatened to make her feel worse. Things were definitely spiraling in a bad direction.

Again, she started playing with her fingers, giving her an excuse to avoid his eyes. She risked sneaking a peek; he was staring directly at her, his face telegraphing his certainty that she was working up to something.

_How the hell did he get to know me so well?_ she wondered.

For the life of her, she didn't know how to make what she had to say any gentler. She knew he would not like what she had to say. At the same time, she couldn't leave any room for misunderstanding, either.

"One other thing, Chuck," she began. "If I'm ever out-of-commission like I was today, you cannot get into an ambulance with me. You won't know whether the ambulance attendants are Fulcrum or other enemy agents until it's too late."

As she had predicted, Chuck was clearly horrified at the thought. "What, so I'm supposed to just watch potentially hostile agents drive off with you while you're incapacitated? Forget it. If that happens again, I'm going with you again."

Her face clenched into something resembling a wince. "Chuck, you can't. The Intersect is far too important…"

"You're what's important. Didn't I make that clear from my embarrassing little speech? Haven't I made that clear time and time and time again?"

He had made it clear, but why couldn't he understand how things needed to be? Frustration crept into her voice. "Chuck, my job is to protect the Intersect at all costs. I have a sworn duty to keep that knowledge out of enemy hands, even if that means giving up my life to make that happen – and even if it means that you have to walk away and leave me to my fate. I need to know that you'll respect that."

"And if I don't?" he asked quietly.

She steeled herself. "Then I'll need to leave." Her tone and her expression were completely matter-of-fact, but her heart ached as she forced the words out.

Her thoughts scattered when she saw his face transform. All the usual traces of humor and warmth and affection were gone, replaced by a cold hurt. It was only then that she realized what she had really told him: the job would always come first.

However, it needed to be said. It was the truth.

She looked down, hoping that he didn't recognize her pain. She needed to be strong for both of them.

All possibility of that fled with his quiet response.

"Then maybe you should leave."

**Scene XXV – Casey's Apartment**

Casey was not listening on surveillance. He wasn't filling out reports. He wasn't even pruning one of his many bonsai trees. Instead Casey sat in his favorite leather recliner, vacantly staring into space.

Those that knew Casey intimately, if they actually existed, would have immediately realized that the agent had done little since returning home. The black mission bag from that day sat, unopened, in the same spot on the floor that Casey had carelessly discarded it upon entering the apartment. He sat in darkness; lights from the courtyard crept through the crevices between the slats of the blinds in the front windows, providing the room's only illumination and eerily highlighting the recesses of the man's face with gloomy shadows.

John Casey wasn't a man given to introspection. He preferred to view the world in simplistic terms: he was an agent, and an agent received his orders and executed them, no questions asked. That type of worldview allowed detachment from the petty distraction of emotions and personal opinions.

He preferred to view the world in those terms, but it wasn't always that simple. After all, that type of attitude could lead to repression, which could bubble up and erupt at inopportune moments. He'd found that out the hard way in Belarus the previous year.

With a grimace, he pushed those memories aside – back down would probably be more accurate, he was forced to admit. Still, revisiting those events for the umpteenth time wasn't going to help anything. What was done was done.

Instead, he mulled over the possibility that following orders without thinking, something he had always viewed as a noble duty, might lead him to be nothing more than an unthinking tool of an ineffective wielder.

Jennings had seen to the heart of Casey's frustrations with an uncanny precision. The intelligence community was divided into silos: different groups of people with mismatched agendas who weren't particularly adept at or interested in working together. On top of that, the NSA had become more and more concerned with making sure the rules were followed, to the point that agents in the field were sometimes handcuffed by the seemingly innumerable protocols. They had become their own worst enemy.

Suppressing a growl, he scratched his chin and looked around the room with a discerning eye. His apartment stood in stark contrast to the Bartowski's warm and welcoming décor. Here, almost every available surface was covered with equipment and gear associated with his job. That spoke to his dedication – and his sacrifice.

He didn't mind the sacrifice as long as the sacrifice was for a worthy cause. Lately, though, he had come to wonder whether his sacrifice was truly furthering a cause, or just helping to plug the leaks in a ship that inevitably continued to sink.

He scanned the room again. The only things not associated with work were his small forest of bonsai trees. His shrink, long since jettisoned, had suggested the hobby as a way to focus on something outside of work. Casey had laughed long and hard when the man made the suggestion, but strangely the shrink had made taking up the hobby a condition of Casey returning to the field.

At the time, Casey had thought the man was just trying to win one last battle in a lost war. Casey had gone over the man's head after several months of inaction, chafing under a regimen of therapy and bored with the psychological double-talk. However, the shrink dug his heels in and said Casey's agreeing to take up the hobby was the only way he would sign off. It seemed a small conciliation to get back in the field, so Casey had accepted the condition without too much fuss.

Casey found himself wondering how insightful the man had been. The trees, with their elegant and carefully cultivated shapes, were a welcome distraction, a focus on something external to his job. They were also coping mechanism, a reminder that he did, in fact, have emotions and opinions that required some kind of an outlet.

Now, he wondered, were they also an analogy for wanting to shape the world around him? He had spent most of his career denying that he needed any say in the events around him. He had been content to let other people make the decisions about what he should do. Yet here he was, spending a little of his time each day cultivating little trees, and they would slowly evolve into pleasing shapes of his own design.

Had the shrink recognized this source of pent-up frustration in Casey? Had he noticed that part of Casey desperately wanted to have more of a say in what his sacrifice was for? If so, why hadn't the man just said something? _Goddamn shrinks and their head games._

Jennings' assessment had struck the same nerve. While Casey prided himself on being the good and loyal solider, he did have reservations about the intelligence community and was bothered that he had little way to help reform it for the better. Jennings seemed to be offering an opportunity to change that. Of course, 'seemed to be' was a relative term, especially in Casey's world.

Chuck's comments were unintentionally similar as well. Had Casey been too focused on being a loyal soldier for too long? Had following orders gone from being the mark of a good agent to an excuse to avoid difficult subjects or putting off a badly needed change?

Now Casey remembered why he hated introspection: he usually just ended up more frustrated for the effort. He seemed to have a choice between the status quo and betraying everything for which he stood, and neither option currently held any particular appeal – or seemed to bear much potential for resolving the dilemma within him.

**Scene XXVI – Under the Streetlight by Sarah's Car**

Sarah stared dumbly at Chuck, her staid mask shattered by his five simple words. She managed a baffled, "What?!"

He repeated, "Maybe you should leave."

"You realize that this isn't some kind of bluff. I'm completely serious."

Dead eyes stared back at her. "I know."

Only then did she realize that her statement really had been something of a bluff. She had been trying to impress the seriousness of the situation on him, but she had never suspected that he would agree with her.

Nor had she suspected how strongly her emotions would react when he did.

She fought the urge to turn around, climb into her car and drive off. That was what she did whenever she felt herself getting too emotional: she retreated until she felt she had returned to her normal, rational self. But to flee now was to allow any chance the two of them had to evaporate into the cooling night air. It would be accepting his offer to leave.

She struggled to form a coherent sentence. "Chuck, I don't understand. Why…"

The deadened glaze in his eyes lifted, his face suddenly riddled with emotion. "I'm willing to give up so much for you, Sarah. I'm willing to sacrifice dates and phone calls and sleepy mornings lying around the house together. But when I saw you come out on the stretcher today…" He trailed off.

"We actually spend less time together now than we did before. It seems like the only place we can actually be a couple is around our friends and my sister. I mean, that kiss we just had … that was truly amazing." His face became wistful and even a little joyful as he recalled the moment.

She managed a small smile to share the sentiment. It had been truly wonderful. Still, it was hard to appreciate currently.

His expression turned earnest. "That kiss … it was passionate and heartfelt and … and something that we can't seem to find a way to do unless we're in a roomful of people. We can't even do it now, can we?"

She shook her head. "Casey might be watching."

"You see? How can this possibly work if we can never be alone?"

"Chuck, it's been two days. Sure, it's been a little crazy, but did you not think through what our dating would have to be like? Did you ever consider how tough it might be at times?"

He thought about that for a moment. "I guess not," he said softly.

The pair stood facing each other in the harsh glare of the street light. A quiet breeze ruffled their clothes. The city seemed strangely silent, as if collectively holding its breath.

She felt her time with Chuck slipping away again, and for once, he didn't seem to have the strength to fight. That left it up to her to preserve any chance the two of them had.

She would have to be strong for both of them.

"Chuck, if I am totally and completely honest with you, can you promise to listen to everything I say and try to understand?"

She could sense him turning over the question in his mind, biting back the bitter response, and then trying not to be hurt by the implication that she wasn't always completely honest with him. After a long moment, he said, "I can promise to try."

She swallowed hard. "I took a big risk when I came back, not only personally but professionally. I think my feelings for you have been pretty obvious, at least lately, and there are good and valid reasons why a handler should not have feelings for her asset. Feelings compromise a handler's ability to protect the asset.

"You aren't just any asset, Chuck. You are critically important to the safety of hundreds of millions of people. You simply cannot fall into the wrong hands."

After taking a deep breath, she continued, "The only way I could justify coming back is if I promised myself that I would continue to make the right decisions to protect you from falling under the control of an enemy. That may mean that I may need to give up my life for yours, or personally escort you to the bunker that you desperately want to avoid. I have to be able to do whatever it takes to ensure that you don't fall under the control of anybody who would use what you know to wreak unspeakable havoc. I couldn't live with myself if that happened, and I don't think you could either."

Some of the tightness eased from his face as he considered her words. His eyes darted to the side for the slightest moment, and she saw that he was starting to understand, albeit reluctantly.

Her vision was becoming the slightest bit blurry as she fought to keep her voice level. "I am telling you all this because I need you to know that the job still comes first, Chuck, because it is not just about your life or my life. It's about those hundreds of millions of other lives, too, and neither one of us has the right to endanger them by being irresponsible. No matter how I feel about you. No matter how we feel about each other."

"If us being together is irresponsible or dangerous, Sarah, then why did you come back?"

"Because I want whatever time we can have together. I know I won't get this opportunity if I don't take it now, and while the situation may be frustrating at times and the end to our story might very well tear my heart completely apart, I want whatever time we can have – because I feel like whatever time we can spend together could very well be the most special time of my life."

She hadn't intended to say all of that, especially the last part, but the words had just seemed to pour out of her of their own volition.

Chuck's eyes had grown wide as she finished. It was the first time she had verbally expressed any kind of feelings for him, and it had turned out to be far more intense than anything he ever had said to her. She felt defenseless, but strangely free at the same time.

She had finally told Chuck how she felt.

Still, she needed to know. "I can keep to my end of the bargain. The question is: can you?"

He didn't respond immediately. "I … I'm not sure," he finally said.

She almost wished that he had lied to her. Almost. "Well," she said, "you need to be sure. It's the only way this can work."

She stepped up to a motionless Chuck, tenderly kissed him on the cheek, and backed away. "Give it some thought tonight, will you?"

His lips parted as if he was about to say something, but the words never came. Any other time, she would have laughed. Chuck was never at a loss for words; that was always her problem.

Sensing that he had no idea what to say, she offered him a last, small smile. She stalked away, shoulders square as she finally allowed herself to retreat to the safety of her car.

He stood like a statue as she put the car in gear and deftly maneuvered the car out into the road. She didn't look back, but that didn't stop the tears from coming.

As the car roared away, the deep brown of his eyes shone with the reflection of the street light, lending a twinkle to their depths that his leaden heart didn't feel.


	13. Chameleon

_Ed. Note - many thanks to Go-Chuck-Go and tshadow for the beta-reads. All mistakes are my own._

_I still don't own Chuck._

**

* * *

**

Scene XXVII – Casa Bartowski, Chuck's Room

Listlessly, Chuck entered his room through the window. He shut the window and dropped the blinds back into place, seemingly operating on autopilot.

A collective roar of laughter from the party filled the room. Chuck heard Jeff's voice, obviously slurred despite the muffling provided by the door. Rhythmic chanting of his name accompanied Jeff downing some variety of alcohol. Other nights, Chuck would have smiled or shuddered at Jeff's drinking, depending on his mood. Tonight, though, the party was just something else to shut out.

Chuck flopped onto his bed and flipped on his iPod. He slipped in his ear buds. He didn't even notice what song came on; it was just white noise to him. Instead, he closed his eyes and revisited his streetlight conversation with Sarah.

He though about her statement that he hadn't thought about what dating her would be like. While that wasn't entirely accurate, the statement held more truth than he cared to admit. His mind had conjured romantic notions of the pair stealing moments while on the job to complement the more routine relationship moments. The reality was that both kinds of moments were proving almost impossible to find.

He had wondered what he would do if he ever lost her, but it had surprised him how she was essentially lost to him so much of the time, at least on a dating level. There were so few times that they could genuinely be themselves without worrying about a mission, or their exposure to a Fulcrum attack, or Casey. Especially Casey. While Chuck had considered the difficulties, he hadn't fully realized just how big an obstacle all of these actually would be.

In his daydreams, he had often defaulted to imagining a life where he wasn't the Intersect and she wasn't an agent, having conveniently forgotten just how important Sarah's job was to her. The job was her life. That wasn't going to change.

What happened when Sarah was called away on another mission halfway around the world? _I can handle that_, Chuck thought. _It would be just like a business trip – except that I'd have no idea where she would be going, and it would probably be a bad idea for me to peek in her luggage._

What if Sarah were called upon to seduce a mark again? His eyes shot open. That was certainly part of her job, and a woman of her beauty would be called upon to do that on a regular basis. How would he handle that? _Badly, if Lon Kirk was any indication,_ he thought wryly.

Would Sarah have any say to limit that type of mission? _Doubtful … and that's assuming that she wouldn't feel duty-bound to pursue the mission_. Even worse, it was unlikely Chuck would ever know which missions might require Sarah to be intimate with a target. Every time she left for a mission, he would be left to wonder.

Then there was the whole notion of Sarah's duty as a handler. What if Director Graham and General Beckman changed their minds, and Sarah were ordered to take him to an underground bunker?

Even worse, what if Sarah had to give up her life for his?

He didn't think he could handle that. Today had been hard enough, when Sarah appeared to be killed in a situation unrelated to him. Could he handle the guilt if Sarah was forced to sacrifice herself just so that he could live?

Sarah was right: he hadn't considered what dating her would be like. It was hard – maybe even impossible.

Chuck sat up and let out a slow, deep exhale. This wasn't helping anything. He had started in a pessimistic mood; he wasn't sure he was thinking things through in any kind of constructive manner.

He needed a distraction.

He slipped the ear buds out and set aside the iPod. Maneuvering out of bed, Chuck crossed the room to the closet, slid his shoes out of the way and depressed a small section of floor. The secure storage vault lifted from the floor with a mechanical hiss. Despite his black mood, the geek in Chuck couldn't help but grin; this was the type of thing he dreamed about having in his closet as a kid.

Lifting the hinged section of wood flooring covering access to the vault, Chuck exposed the keypad. He typed in the code, and the vault opened with a metallic click and the escape of pressurized air.

Chuck looked down into the shopping bag that Sarah had lowered into the narrow holding space. He spied a leather-bound tome; he stuck his arm shoulder-deep into the vault, managing to wrap his hand around the book without needing to move the bag. He pulled the heavy volume from the vault.

As he was leaning over, he felt a strange weight shift in his pocket. Only then did he remember that he still had Veron's PDA. He set the book on his bed, retrieved the PDA and lowered it as far down into the bag as he could before dropping it the last few inches. Part of his mind quietly noted that the PDA landed on some kind of cushion at the bottom of the bag, but the distraction of the tome in his hands quickly pushed that thought aside.

He looked fondly at the seemingly old hardcover book, tracing a finger along the weathered binding and the ornate lettering. The book was _A Spell for Chameleon_ by Piers Anthony. It was the first book in a series of science fiction novels Chuck had read over and over again as a kid. It appeared to be an early edition, possibly valuable. What could Fulcrum want with this?

Another round of laughter from the party reminded him that he wasn't alone in the apartment. After glancing over his shoulder to make certain he was still alone, Chuck quickly extricated his arm, shut the vault, and triggered the vault to lower back into the floor. Scattering his shoes across the closet floor as Sarah had done, he closed the closet door and retreated to his bed.

He flipped through the book, looking for inserted pieces of paper or writing. Nothing.

Chuck frowned. He checked the binding. Nothing there, either.

He flipped through the pages, looking for visual patterns. He went so far as to touch a number of pages and sniff for any unusual odors that might indicate invisible ink or some other form of concealed writing. Still, he found nothing.

As far as he could tell, it was just a book.

Stumped, Chuck fluffed a couple of pillows and rolled over onto his side. Maybe he'd figure out something just by reading.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Chuck looked up just in time to see his clock change to 9:15. He had become entranced by his old favorite and torn through a good portion of the book. He shifted his body and stretched, holding the book in one hand with a thumb marking his place.

He stretched a bit too far. Clumsily, Chuck let the book slip from his fingers onto the bed behind him.

A bit upset with himself, Chuck retrieved the book and tried to remember about what page he would be on. He figured he had been reading for about twenty minutes, so he probably had gone through at least forty or fifty pages, given the large font of the book.

He grabbed a sheaf of what he thought was about fifty pages, but after he turned them over, he was surprised to find the page number 81. He frowned. It wasn't like him to misestimate by that much.

He leafed back a page, and found the page marked as 65.

"Wait a minute…" Chuck started checking the page numbers, which appeared to be in an utterly random order.

He grew excited. Maybe there was information encoded in the page numbers!

He went over to his desk and brought up Excel. As quickly as he could, he started typing in page numbers into the first column.

65-76-81-65-69-68-65-57-56-50

He stopped after the first ten numbers and stared at them. The good news was that he had found the information. However, it was code. What did the numbers mean?

There was something familiar about the numbers, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Tantalized by the nagging feeling he should recognize their meaning, he stared at the numbers for a few minutes, but nothing came to him.

He tried a few different things: correlating the number of the page to the word or the letter on the page produced gibberish, and probably didn't make any sense because the book seemed to be unaltered from its original prose. Similarly, he tried picking out the letter on the page corresponding to the number, but that also failed to produce anything interesting – unless the phrase in question was encoded.

He leaned back in his chair. The numbers could be encrypted in any variety of ways. It probably was a fruitless exercise.

Still, he supposed that it didn't hurt to give it a little more thought. He forced himself to focus.

The book was coming from Andon Minh. It was something that Fulcrum wanted. Minh was an information broker; was it possible the book was a vehicle for delivery and that Fulcrum was just another customer? Or was this something Fulcrum was trying to intercept? Maybe a Fulcrum agent had found Minh, where he was being held, and found out about the existence of the book?

Chuck rubbed his face with one hand. It could conceivably be any of those. However, given the lengths that somebody had gone through to create the replica of the book to hide the numbers, it was certainly possible that Minh only used a simple mechanism to encode the information.

He frowned. If the numbers were encrypted, there would need to be a mechanism for passing along a cipher of some kind. However, Fulcrum worked in cells. The problem with a cell infrastructure is that communicating pieces of information between cells that were, by their nature, unaware of each other was complicated at best. Assuming the book was created for Fulcrum, there would need to be a simple mechanism of encoding, one easily available to any cell…

Chuck sat upright. _No, it couldn't be that simple._

He went back into Excel and inserted the CHAR function into the cell next to the first letter. He copied the function down to the cells next to the other numbers.

The letters spelled "ALQAEDA982".

The numbers were simple ASCII code.

Shivers ran up and down Chuck's spine. He had deciphered the code … but what they might represent was truly frightening.

* * *

Chuck had taken some time to enter a series of other numbers from the book. After a few minutes of feverish typing, he stopped; his curiosity about what he was translating was driving him crazy.

Copying the formulas into the adjacent cells produced a long string of characters:

"5702125555249estebancruzLASOLVOYABRILLAROTRAVEZ."

Figuring that the periods were used to separate lines, he cut the string into two.

"ALQAEDA98215552615maherararQURAN2:124."

"FARC5702125555249estebancruzLASOLVOYABRILLAROTRAVEZ."

The use of upper and lower case, along with numbers, seemed to indicate columns.

"ALQAEDA" "98215552615" "maherarar" "QURAN2:124."

"FARC" "5702125555249" "estebancruz" "LASOLVOYABRILLAROTRAVEZ."

Breaking the lines apart into separate sections like that, Chuck had a pair of flashes, in rapid succession, on the lower case strings. The first was a series of scanned newspaper articles in Arabic with graphic pictures of devastation besides them; the second was a similar series of scanned articles, this time in Spanish.

He grabbed his phone from on top of his bookshelf, instinctively prepared to dial Sarah's number. As his finger poised to activate her speed-dial, he froze, remembering their earlier conversation. Was he really ready to talk to her?

The answer came quickly: he had to be, no matter what the situation was. Their personal relationship could never interfere with their professional one. Period.

His resolve stiffened, and he forced himself to dial her number.

Her phone rolled to voice mail. "Hi, this is Sarah…" He hung up; he felt an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. This meant he had to take the book to Casey.

**Scene XXVIII – Casey's Apartment**

Casey looked up from his recliner as somebody began knocking rapidly on his front door. Well, not 'somebody'. He could tell from the frantic nature of the knocking that it was Bartowski.

He sighed. His mood hadn't improved any, and seeing Bartowski usually wasn't a recipe for cheering up.

Casey looked around the apartment. With the lights off and the blinds closed, there was a decent chance that Bartowski would think Casey wasn't there and would just leave. He could hope.

A second round of knocking suggested that Bartowski wouldn't be so easily deterred.

Grumbling under his breath, Casey pulled himself out of the chair and crossed the room, stretching muscles sore from spending an extended time immobile. He was just about to open the front door when the third round of knocking abruptly stopped.

Casey frowned. Had Bartowski given up?

He punched the keypad to the right of the door. The seeming alarm keypad rose up to reveal a video screen. Bartowski stood facing the door at a bit of a diagonal, hands raised high, with a book held overhead in his right hand.

Casey couldn't figure out what Chuck was doing until the monitor self-adjusted for the nighttime light level in the courtyard. In the shadows behind Chuck stood a figure dressed all in black. A digital line scrolled down the screen as the system scanned for weapons.

The gun pointed at Chuck's heart was suddenly highlighted in bright red on the small screen.


	14. Blinded by Necessity

**Scene XXIX – Apartment Complex Courtyard**

"Give me the book," a man snarled through his facemask. Had Chuck been able to see the man, he would have wondered how the attacker could see through the curious webbing over his eyes.

"Who are you?" Chuck babbled. "And by the way, who steals books at gunpoint? Haven't you heard of a library?"

"Last chance, smart guy – give me the book!" The black-clad man poked his gun threateningly into Chuck's back.

"OK, OK, the library is four or five blocks away, it's probably closed already … there are those annoying late fees …" He started lowering the book.

"Slowly," the assailant ordered.

Chuck obliged, slowing the descent.

Planting the gun firmly in Chuck's back, the man bent over and took the book. He retreated, taking three measured steps backwards as he slipped the book into a black satchel mounted on his back.

"Now," he said, "do you know where the PDA or the boots are?"

Chuck was glad that he was turned towards the door so that his expression didn't give anything away. "The what?" he bluffed.

He suddenly noticed a strange, high-pitched tone up coming from somewhere above him; it sounded like some type of device charging. Involuntarily, he looked up to see what it was.

That was a mistake.

An incredibly bright flash of light short-circuited Chuck's thought process. A wild series of colors danced angrily across his eyes. He instinctively whipped his head away as he covered his face with his hands; he fell to the ground, fighting not to cry out in pain.

Behind him, he heard the door fly open. Casey ordered, "Drop it!"

"I don't think so, Agent Casey." the masked man said, the suddenly more distant voice indicating that he had managed to take several steps back. "You shoot me, and your partner goes down."

"Partner?" Casey sneered. "He's just a courier."

"Whatever," the man said, his voice sounding even further away to Chuck. "He'll be a corpse if you don't put your gun down."

"Not gonna happen. Stay where you are and drop the gun, or you're …"

Casey cut off. In the sudden silence, Chuck heard something skitter across the ground towards him. He heard a pair of hisses escape Casey's silenced revolver, and then felt the big man take a step near him to give the approaching object a solid kick. Chuck heard a mild impact, a splash, and a soft little explosion followed by the sound of water splashing.

The masked man's shoes scuffed on the sidewalk in the distance. Two more hisses from Casey's silenced revolver overlapped with the assailant's fast-fading footsteps.

Casey cursed; he crossed towards the archway in a few quick steps. A distant burst of air preceded a shower of plaster from the wall over by Ellie's apartment; the sound was like a sharp crack followed by a scattering of pebbles on pavement.

"Casey!" Chuck cried out. He had felt helpless plenty of times in the past, but not being able to see while bursts of pain shot through his head took things to a whole new level.

Still writhing on the ground, Chuck heard Casey run back to him. The NSA agent roughly picked him up in a fireman's carry and dragged him back towards the apartment. Chuck felt his heels bump over the threshold; Casey dragged him a few feet further inside, roughly dropped him to the ground, and then slammed the door shut.

The door to Ellie's apartment swung open, allowing noise from the party to escape into the courtyard. Devon, clearly curious about the noises he had heard, stuck his head out and glanced around. Seeing nothing, he headed back inside, a dismissive expression on his face.

**Scene XXX – CIA Facility**

Sarah wasn't happy returning to the CIA Facility just hours after the attack on her, even with Graham's assurances that precautions had been taken to protect against Fulcrum repeating the penetration. However, he hadn't exactly left her a choice in the matter.

The parking lot of the facility was largely empty this late on a Saturday night. Most agents were off living their lives. As she eased her car into a well-lit spot near the entrance, she couldn't help but be a little bitter as she looked around. The aftereffects of the argument that she and Chuck had just had still lingered, especially the part where he had unexpectedly accepted her suggestion that she may have to leave.

While Chuck may not have considered how difficult dating her would be, she had never considered that he might give up on them. His unflappable confidence that they would somehow find a way, that romantic innocence and determination, was one of the things that had charmed her about him. If he had that type of confidence, maybe they could find way despite everything set against them. However, if he lost that confidence ... she sighed.

Among other things, Chuck was her lifeline to a normal life – perhaps her last lifeline. She wondered if leaving him to go to work was a mistake.

No, Sarah decided. She had said what needed to be said, and left him to think. She was finally comfortable that she could handle what would be necessary in order to date Chuck; he needed to be comfortable as well. Besides, her leaving reinforced her point that the job would always need to come first. It would always have to come first.

She refused to allow herself to consider the possibility that he might not be able to handle that.

Somewhat reassured that she had done the right thing, she exited the car and headed for the entrance. As she so often had to do, she banished thoughts of Chuck from her mind, double-checking that she had shut her phone off to keep him from distracting her. She couldn't afford to have her mind wander, no matter what precautions Graham had taken.

She forced herself not to roll her eyes when she saw three guards rather than two at the front desk. _Tell me you did more than that, Director_, she thought sardonically.

After showing her ID and unsuccessfully trying to smile at the guards, she headed past the security station and down the sterile but brightly lit passage. Her relatively slow footfalls rattled through the halls; if she closed her eyes, she would have thought she were in some old abandoned house rather than a functioning CIA facility.

She reached the bank of elevators. She pushed a button.

A whirring and a series of beeps indicated that a car was answering her summons from a top floor. A gentler, lower-pitched beep preceded the nearly silent opening of the doors.

The elevator was empty.

Sarah exhaled, only then realizing that she had been holding her breath and was unconsciously poised to act, if needed. She clearly wasn't comfortable here any more.

She boarded the car and quickly punched in a code. The doors closed, and the bad elevator music kicked in. This time, she did roll her eyes.

Five floors up, the echoes of her footsteps in the halls bothered her less as she mentally prepared herself for what was to come. This was one part of her job she didn't care for in the least.

The last door on the left was clearly different than the others on the hall: of an older design and made of heavy gray steel, it looked every bit as strong as it was. Explosives would be more likely to burst out of the back of the building than to break into this room.

Sarah pushed a button next to the door and waited patiently.

"Identification please," crackled a male voice from a speaker just below the button. She held up her badge, remaining still as a smooth, shiny black panel used an infrared device to scan both her and her badge.

A series of metal bolts protested loudly as the door was unlocked. The door swung silently inward.

She walked into the dark room. Most of the light funneled in through the large observation window for the brightly lit interrogation chamber beyond the opposite wall. The only other light came from the desk against the wall to her right: a small lamp spotlighted a notebook and some folders, while a pair of security monitors provided views of the outside hallway and the interrogation room.

A man stood in the center of the room, holding a pair of manila folders and a newspaper. His dark suit unsuccessfully tried to make up for his narrow frame; the oversized suit simply emphasized his rail-thin figure. His close-cropped strawberry blonde hair obviously resisted his best efforts to tame it.

The door to the hallway silently slipped shut behind her; the bolts slid home.

She looked beyond the man through the large one-way window. Her two assailants from earlier that day were carefully secured to two chairs, deliberately set eight feet apart and facing the one-way mirror. The woman stared coolly at the ground in front of her; the man merely seemed lost in thought.

Sarah was all business. "Anything to report?" she asked.

"Nothing. They've barely said anything in the three hours they've been in there, and we haven't seen a lick of emotion. No yelling, no demanding to be set free, nothing. These are two cool customers."

"Tranquilizers from today?"

"Worn off."

"Anything else administered?"

"Not yet. We were waiting to see what you wanted to do." He indicated a silver suitcase holding an array of syringes and vials sitting on a long table against the left wall.

She nodded approvingly, taking the pair of manila folders and leafing through them. She pretended not to notice the agent's eyes tracing her body; instead, she focused on what the CIA knew about the two Los Mellizos henchmen.

The files were fairly detailed; the hard-bitten pair was notorious for their various exploits on behalf of their drug cartel. She had to fight to keep from blanching at some of the things they had done.

She wished she could have brought Chuck to see if he could flash on the two with a better look at them. Every scrap of information helped when doing an interrogation. Unfortunately, she had been forced to rule that out. With Fulcrum having penetrated the facility earlier that day, it was a bad idea to bring Chuck there. He was safer back at the apartment complex.

Also, she had to admit that wasn't sure how Chuck would react to seeing the side of her that was about to emerge.

She gathered herself, mentally preparing herself for what was to come. After a moment, she was ready. "All right," she said in her businesslike manner. She removed her badge, handed the folders and the badge to the man and took the newspaper. She headed for the door to the room.

"Don't you want to give them something to loosen their tongues?"

"Let's see how I do without that," she said with a wicked gleam in her eye.

The man walked over to the desk and activated some controls. Bolts slid free, and the door to the room swung open.

**Scene XXXI – Casey's Apartment**

Chuck lay on the cool tile in the entryway of Casey's apartment, eyes kept firmly shut. The sounds from Casey's footsteps had told Chuck that the NSA agent had moved back towards the front door and was now standing perfectly still.

"Casey?! What's going on?" Chuck whispered.

"Perp bugged out, Chuck. Just making sure he's not doubling back." Chuck heard some beeping noises as Casey tapped numbers into the keypad by the door. "Stay put. I'm going to make sure our position is secure." The sound of light footsteps faded as Casey headed towards the back of the apartment.

Still unable to see, Chuck felt completely helpless. Unwilling to risk opening his eyes again, he strained to hear anything that might give him a hint of what was going on. He heard nothing.

Chuck forced himself to sit up. He pushed himself backwards, sliding on the seat of his pants, towards where he thought the wall was. His guess was decent, although he found himself at a bit of an angle. He straightened himself so his back was flush with the wall.

He took a moment to try to control his anxious breathing. Feeling a bit more relaxed, he again strained to detect any kind of noise. Minutes passed; silence pervaded the apartment.

Suddenly, he sensed he wasn't alone. He still hadn't heard anything, but somehow he knew somebody was right there with him.

"Casey?" he called hesitantly.

There was no response.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He swiveled his head slightly to the side, trying to detect anything that would validate the strange feeling that he was not alone. At one point, he felt the slightest hint of a breeze touch his face, but the sensation was gone as quickly as it came.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he stopped thinking so much and tried to extend his senses. He listened to what they were telling him – he was right, there was somebody there with him. And the person was…

"Chuck!" Casey blurted sharply into Chuck's left ear.

"AHH!" Chuck yelled, instinctively falling over to his right and catching himself on his forearm.

Casey chuckled evilly.

Chuck did his best to glare at Casey with his eyes shut. "Was that entirely necessary?"

"No." Casey grinned. "But it sure was fun."

"You know, there are plenty of ways to enjoy yourself that don't involve trying to get me to soil myself."

"Most aren't nearly as much fun, and those that are involve guns or heavy machinery."

"Wow, what an interesting personal ad you could write. 'Hi, I'm John Casey. I like M16s, flying fighter jets, and triggering involuntary bowel movements.'"

"Beats pina coladas and getting caught in the rain any day of the week."

Stooping over, Casey threw the lanky man's arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet. The agent transported Chuck across the room.

"What's going on with my eyes?" Chuck asked a bit fearfully as Casey eased him onto the couch. "I still can't see anything."

Casey stood up. "The NSA installed a modified light cell in the porch light. It gives a quick burst of intense light designed to incapacitate a subject for about thirty seconds and completely steal his sight for up to twenty minutes. Your vision should start coming back shortly."

"I'll take your word for it. Whenever I open my eyes, all I see is some kind of psychotic screen saver."

"Stiff upper lip, Bartowski. It's not like we'll need to take you away from Sarah to recover at some mountain retreat for several months. You'll be back to messing up missions and being a general pain-in-the-ass in no time."

"Think you could ease up on the usual routine? I feel bad enough about this." Chuck shifted into a more comfortable position as he thought for a moment. "So why didn't your little light show take out the rabid bookworm with the gun?"

Casey's tone became more clinical. "Your attacker was wearing a mask; it must have protected his eyes. Makes sense: he threw a flash grenade at us during the fight, so he would want to protect his eyes against something like that."

"Was that what I heard you kick away?"

"Yep. I identified it as a harmless flash grenade, but I couldn't take any chances, so I had to kick it into the fountain. Unfortunately, the distraction allowed the guy to escape."

Chuck allowed his eyes to open into slits. For the first time, he was able to make out some of the details of the room, including Casey sitting next to him on the couch, although his vision was still marred by frantically dancing colors. "Better," he commented. He shut his eyes again.

"What was in the book, Bartowski? And why didn't I know about it?"

"Sarah gave me the book half an hour ago. All I know is that the book was one of the things that we confiscated from Andon Minh and that Fulcrum was after it. She asked me to take a look at it and see if I flashed."

"And did you?"

"Not directly. Somebody went through a lot of effort to make the thing look like just a plain old book, but most of the page numbers were actually a simple code."

"But Fulcrum has the book, so we have nothing. Terrific."

"Not true. I cracked the code and deciphered the first couple of lines of the message."

"Well, that's something. Can you remember them?"

"They're on my computer. Why don't we just go get them?"

"Well, let's see. You can't see, and I don't particularly want to risk having to explain how you ended up blind to your sister - not to mention how we ended up alone in your room. Oh, and there's the minor matter of being attacked right outside the door."

"Staying here it is. Grab a pen."

Chuck heard Casey rifle through a pile of items and make his way back to his seat. "Go ahead."

"AL QAEDA. A number: 982 … I can't remember the rest. It was about twelve digits."

"Skip it for now. What else?"

"Maher Arar" Chuck went back and spelled it for Casey. "QURAN 2:124. That was it for the first line."

"Second line?"

"FARC. "5702 … again, about twelve digits. Esteban Cruz. A long string of letters that looked like a sentence in Spanish. Casey, I think they're…"

"They're phone numbers. 98 is the country code for Iran. 57 is the country code for Colombia"

"That makes sense: I flashed on Maher Arar and Esteban Cruz; they're reporters in those countries."

"Yep," Casey said, as if that were all well-known to him.

"So what, they're names and phone numbers of reporters? Seems like a lot of trouble to go through to create a phone book."

"Not when you include the names of terrorist organizations and confirmation codes."

"Confirmation codes?"

Casey got up and started messing with one of the many monitors around the room. "The Al Qaeda entry listed Quran chapter 2, verse 124. The Spanish phrase in the FARC line is probably a similar pass-phrase."

Chuck shook his head. "I don't get it."

"Think, Bartowski. Put the pieces together."

Suddenly, Chuck recalled the articles he flashed on. The flashes had both shown pictures of the aftermaths of significant acts of terrorism. His face turned white. "They're pass-phrases so the terrorist groups can call certain reporters to claim or deny their group's responsibility for specific acts of terrorism."

His eyes shot open; most of the flashing colors were gone, and he felt little pain. The first thing he saw was Casey nodding grimly. The agent said, "Fulcrum wants terrorist organizations to take responsibility for something."

"That can't be good."

"No, it really can't."

* * *

Ten minutes later, General Beckman was on the monitor. She was not in her office; rather, she was in what appeared to be a richly appointed bedroom. Rather than her typical uniform, she wore a brilliant blue evening gown. Her hair cascaded loosely down to her shoulders, and she was wearing a fair amount of make-up.

Casey took it in stride; he didn't show the slightest hint of emotion. Chuck, however, cocked his head to the side with a disbelieving look, which he quickly tried to shake off.

The general was not amused; she shot an angry look at Chuck before saying, "This had better be good."

"Sorry to interrupt your plans, General," Casey said.

"Diane…" a strange male voice called romantically from off the screen.

Casey's eyes tightened the slightest bit. Chuck could only hope his jaw didn't drop quite as far as he felt it did.

"Just a minute, darling," she answered sweetly. Turning back to the camera, she hissed, "What is it?!"

"Somebody we believe to be a Fulcrum agent attacked Bartowski in the courtyard outside the apartment. A man in a black mask surprised Bartowski and acquired a book that Agent Walker had asked the Intersect to examine. I was able to secure the asset, but the assailant managed to escape with the book."

"Do we need to relocate Bartowski?"

Casey glanced over at Chuck. "Negative, General. I reviewed the surveillance, and I do not believe the assailant ever identified Bartowski. He did, however, identify me by name. In all likelihood I was the target."

The general frowned. "OK, he can stay put for now. Any more attacks, though, and we extract the asset immediately."

Chuck swallowed hard.

"What was this book?" Beckman asked.

"Agent Walker hasn't had the opportunity to fully brief me, General, but I believe the book was an item we obtained when we captured Andon Minh. I am unaware how she learned of its importance to Fulcrum."

The general glanced impatiently to the side of the screen. In an even tone that suggested her patience was being tried, she said, "No, I am asking what the book is."

Chuck said, "It's a facsimile of a hardcover book that we believe Minh used to encode information. I was able to translate two of the lines and was on my way to report to Agent Casey when I was attacked."

Casey added, "The two lines that Chuck translated listed terrorist organizations and their corresponding reporters that the groups use to claim responsibility for terrorist attacks. The lines included pass-phrases to verify their identity."

For the first time since she got on the call, the general didn't look bothered about being interrupted. "That's not good."

Casey gave an ironic chuckle and a sardonic grin. "We had the same thought."

The general seemed lost in thought, as if trying to decide whether to tell them something.

Casey picked up on this quickly. "General, if there's something we should know…"

Beckman snapped out of her reverie. "No. Your orders, Agent Casey, are to stay put and protect the Intersect. Mr. Bartowski, your orders are to not get attacked."

"I'll work on that, General. Ma'am."

Again, the strange male voice came through the speakers. "Diane, how long do I need to…" Looking nonplussed, the general ended the transmission.

"Well, that was thoroughly awkward," Chuck commented.

"At least somebody is getting lucky tonight." Casey directed an annoyed look at his bunkmate for the night. "I certainly didn't."


	15. The Interrogation

_Ed. Note – This is not a normal chapter. It explores a side of Sarah that isn't normally explored, and does so in a way that some may find disturbing._

_Little of what is written is explicit, but it is definitely a dark chapter with implied adult situations. This chapter is an anomaly; it is not at all typical of how any of the rest of the story will be written. However, I think it plays well into my overall storyline._

_I hope you like it._

* * *

**Scene XXXII – CIA Interrogation Room**

Sarah strode into the room; the door quietly swung shut behind her. The rhythmic clacking of Sarah's heels on the concrete floor and the slight bustling of her shirt were the only noise apart from the steady hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Both of the Los Mellizos henchmen looked up as she centered herself in front of them. She adopted a wide-legged stance and folded her arms. Neither showed the slightest hint of emotion: no anger, no curiosity, nothing. They simply stared at her with all the interest of a ten-year old staring at a math book. _Cool customers indeed_, Sarah thought.

Sarah inhaled deeply; the sound seemed deafeningly loud. "So," Sarah began, "who wants to tell me why you were trying to kill me today."

There was no reaction in either subject, not even anything that acknowledged that they had heard what she said. It wasn't a language barrier; the files had noted that both were fluent in English as well as Spanish. There just wasn't the slightest hint of acknowledgment.

"Last time I checked, members of drug cartels don't fly to other continents just to start assassinating people randomly. There had to be some reason you two came after me."

Again, the two didn't twitch. They weren't even blinking.

Sarah turned and started pacing parallel to the henchmen. The two were determined not to move, so she forced their eyes to follow her movement. Psychologically, it was a simply way to break the stalemate in her favor.

She smiled internally. Interrogation was a fundamentally simple exercise: an interrogator created little cracks in a person's defense, and then built enough pressure to burst through those cracks. As their eyes traced her movement, she had just created the first tiny hole in their defenses.

"Tell me," she commanded, "did I do something to offend you? Cut you off on the freeway? Not return a phone call?" She turned to her left and took one step forward, allowing her to lean forward and place her hands on the arm rests of the man's chair. "Maybe it was a bit of … frustration?" she said coyly, her eyes slowly tracing downwards to emphasize her meaning.

Again, no reaction. She didn't really expect one; it was a cheap ploy, and these were hardened criminals. She stared into his glazed eyes for a long moment before she slowly rolled back upright, making sure to keep eye contact long enough to drive home every last bit of her little suggestion. She finally turned away to continue her deliberate pacing.

"No, you aren't the types to react out of anger or frustration, are you. You're the little lapdogs of Los Mellizos." She drummed up her best Spanish accent. "Perritos adiestrados. You do what you're told, and nothing more."

Reaching the end of the room, she turned back. "So, why were you told to come after me? Why would Los Mellizos want me dead?"

The two just stared at her. She wasn't surprised. She hadn't expected this to be easy.

"Elsa Moreno and Alejandro Gonzalez, two of the best trained puppies that money can buy. Of course, the problem with being a trained anything is that you've admitted that you can be trained … or re-trained."

Alejandro scoffed. Again, Sarah felt a jolt at the success. She had broken through the silence barrier.

"Something amusing?" she asked him.

"Please. There is nothing you can do to get us to talk. What, you are going to retrain us? How. Send us to … Guantanamo Bay? To get around your own laws?"

Sarah eyed him sardonically. "You seem pretty high and mighty for an errand boy for a drug kingpin. Since when did laws matter to you?"

"They don't. But they do matter to you."

"American laws don't protect a dead person."

"So what, you're going to kill us and then ask us questions?" He almost snorted. "Please."

"Didn't you hear? You guys are already dead." Sarah unrolled the newspaper, an advanced copy of the Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times, and threw it onto the ground with a loud thwack. "And so am I."

The two tilted their heads down to see the paper. The top story on the page showed pictures of the three of them, all looking badly burnt. The headline read, "_Gas Line Explosion Kills Three in Vacant Store_".

Sarah continued, "We even used your real names, to make it easy for your friends back in Colombia to find the story. I can do pretty much whatever I want to you two, and nobody is going to care. After all," she paused to look the both of them in the eye, "we're all dead, and nobody is going to be coming to save you."

At that, the corner of Elsa's mouth turned upwards. "We have more powerful friends than you could possibly imagine."

"What, Fulcrum?" The smugness drained from her face as Sarah invoked the name. "Yes, we know about them. That's why there are exactly four people who know where you are this moment, including myself. Do you have any interest in playing the odds that one of the other three is a Fulcrum agent?"

The corner of Elsa's mouth twitched, giving Sarah her answer. She had her opening; now she just needed to exploit it.

She stepped back to address them both. "As it turns out, I can imagine a lot. The question is, can you?"

"What do you mean?" the man asked.

"Can you imagine how badly I want to capture Fulcrum? Can you imagine what I might be willing to do to extract that information from the two of you? Can you imagine how little regard I hold for your lives at this moment? Violation of a law or two means nothing to me."

"Well, then, we're all in for a long night," Elsa said. "Which law did you plan to violate first?"

For the first time, Sarah cringed, though she hid her reaction well. With one comment, Elsa had called her bluff and blunted a fair bit of the momentum Sarah had so carefully built. _Score one for the bad guys,_ she thought ruefully.

* * *

Sarah spent the next hour trying every verbal technique she had been taught, or learned, or observed during her years in the field. She was good cop, and then bad cop. She threatened, she cajoled, she empathized, and she questioned their loyalties. She tried to convey the hopelessness of their situation. Still, all she got was silence or insults in return.

She was getting frustrated. She didn't like to drug her subjects, as drugs left a footprint in the subject's system that could be traced back to the CIA. The safest thing to do after drugging a subject was to execute him, and despite the cruel things these two had done, Sarah didn't like sentencing the people she interrogated to death.

Physical torture was time-consuming and often unreliable, especially with people like those she was interrogating. These people did not frighten or break easily by mere physical pain. She needed something more.

Despite her training, a small growl of frustration escaped her, clearly audible in the room. She froze; realizing what she had done, she immediately glanced over at the two.

They had noticed. The two exchanged a look indicating that they realized that they had frustrated her. They shared a smile of pride … and something more.

She recognized that glance all too well. She was shocked the possibility hadn't occurred to her before.

Elsa and Alejandro were more than partners. Far more.

Sarah had found her opening.

After processing what she had learned and how she could use it, she walked over to Elsa. The bound woman had a cruel and victorious smile on her face. Sarah leaned over, and whispered in the woman's left ear, the one away from her partner. "Woman to woman, I didn't want it to come to this." Sarah leaned back and gave the woman a sympathetic smile.

"Come to what?" Elsa couldn't help but ask.

Sarah grabbed the corner of the chair, and turned it to face her partner. Elsa looked at the agent with a confused expression.

Sarah walked over to Alejandro, who was clearly confused by the change. Sarah examined him for a long moment. Alejandro was not an ugly man. His skin was a bit of a mess after the day's events, and nobody had bothered to clean up the spirit gum and fake soot used to affect the appearance of burns in his face. She chose to focus on the eyes: they were a deep brown like Chuck's, but different enough that she could easily pick out the differences when she needed.

Right now, those eyes, usually so hard around the edges, were showing a bit of nervousness. For the first time, the man showed uncertainty.

Slowly, almost delicately, Sarah took the unused gag from around his neck and raised it into place. After checking to ensure that she had it positioned properly, Sarah put her left leg to his right side and threw her other leg over his lap. Very deliberately, she lowered her hips down. The way his ankles were bound to the legs of the chair gave her free access between his legs.

"What are you doing?" Elsa said, unable to keep a note of alarm from her voice.

Sarah looked over at her. "What, this? Well, I tried being persuasive in a number of ways. I just remembered another way that I can be very persuasive." Staring at Elsa, she moved her hips in a slow circle as she grinded against the bound man. The chair squeaked ever so slightly.

Emotion danced across Elsa's face. "You can't do this," she said in a low, threatening tone.

"What?" Sarah asked innocently. "This?" Again, she circled her hips. She turned to look down at the man she was straddling. "Oh, there you are," she cooed, resting her forearms on his shoulders.

Alejandro looked over at Elsa, shaking his head.

"Oh, don't worry about her, baby," Sarah said in a sultry tone, gently stroking the back of his hair. "This is just about us." He refused to look at her, focusing with all his might on Elsa.

Giving the other woman a frustrated look, Sarah dismounted. She walked over to Elsa, who was staring daggers at the blonde. "I think Alejandro and I need a bit more privacy."

Sarah grabbed the back of Elsa's chair and noisily dragged her to a back corner of the room. Twisting the chair around to face the rear wall, the bound woman had no way to turn far enough to see Alejandro.

Sarah knelt at her side. "Now, I'm going to go attend to your boyfriend. With you facing the back wall, you'll no doubt be listening intently. I'll tell you this much: the sounds that you hear will either be more of what you just saw, or," she paused, pulling a knife out of a sheath in her lower back, "something else. Who knows what I will be forced to do to your boyfriend if you don't agree to talk to us." She gave a resigned sigh. "I probably will have to use the knife eventually, though."

"You unbelievable bitch!" Elsa spat.

The agent stared coldly into the captive's eyes. "This is easy, Elsa. The power is yours. Tell me what I need to know, and all this stops."

A look of agonized frustration crossed Elsa's face. Realizing her outburst had already said too much, she said nothing more, forcing herself to turn away.

Sarah shrugged. "Your call. We'll see what I decide to do first." She started to walk away, but deliberately stopped in Elsa's peripheral vision. Sarah mused, "Do you think you'll be able to tell which of his cries are from pleasure and which are from pain? I wonder."

Elsa refused to look up; her face was a stubborn mask. She clearly was trying to steel herself for what was to come.

Sensing that no reaction was forthcoming, the agent shrugged. As she walked away, she addressed Alejandro. "OK, we're all alone now. You can let yourself go."

Despite herself, Elsa couldn't help but strain to hear what was going on. She heard Sarah's footsteps break stride and scuff on the floor, and the sound of clothing rustling. The chair squeaked slightly, then again, and again. An indeterminate moan escaped from around Alejandro's gag.

Elsa only barely stifled another protest, closing her eyes as she desperately tried to shut out what she was hearing.

* * *

Sarah spent an indeterminate time crossing back and forth between the lovers, pausing with each of them to administer her improvised form of torture. With Elsa, the torture was largely verbal; not because she was a woman, but because Alejandro was a man, and one that clearly responded to Sarah's actions, be they painful or pleasurable.

Mercilessly, Sarah kept returning to Elsa to update her on Alejandro's status. Her words were blunt weapons, pounding away at Elsa, provoking jealousy and hatred and anguish. At times, Sarah was meticulous and precise in her descriptions. At other times, she let Elsa's mind run wild with the barest suggestions. Both were profoundly effective.

Alejandro struggled not to react to Sarah's ministrations, but Sarah knew too well how to make a man respond. More and more, he was unable to keep from crying out, for one reason or the other, in tortured whimpers muffled by the soggy gag in his mouth. He often stared at the ceiling as if begging for some type of aid, but none was forthcoming.

Interrogation was a fundamentally simple exercise, but Sarah's methods bordered on an art form of a cruel and perverted sort.

Her blouse partially unbuttoned and her skirt hitched up, Sarah strode back towards Elsa. She knelt down, grabbing onto the back of the chair and whispered fiercely into Elsa's ear. Sarah's tone was angry, that of an infuriated woman livid that she wasn't getting what she wanted. She was a woman capable of doing anything.

Sarah left to wreak that anything on Alejandro.

Silently, Elsa sobbed. She shut her eyes, trying to will the tears not to come, but they started to slip between her eyelids.

Alejandro howled, the gag no longer muffling the sounds from his mouth.

"Stop!" Elsa cried. "Stop," she added in a broken voice. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks.

In five quick steps Sarah crossed the room to stand behind Elsa. She buttoned her blouse and adjusted her skirt as she heatedly ordered, "You tell us everything, Elsa. Every last detail. We will go check it all out, and if I find that you have given us the slightest bit of misinformation or omitted the smallest detail, I will come back and finish him – in more ways than one."

She turned around and headed for the door at a fast clip, her heels clicking on the floor. On cue, the door opened in front of her.

Elsa gathered herself. "Agent Sarah Walker," she called with a determined and vengeful tone, one belying the wet streaks still painting her cheeks.

Sarah stopped.

Elsa continued, "Before all is said and done, I will find somebody that you care about, and I will make him pay dearly for what you did here today. I swear I will."

Despite all her training, shivers ran down Sarah's spine. Unbidden, Chuck's face came to her mind.

Afraid her voice might betray her, she did the only thing she could: she walked out the door.

The strawberry blond agent shut the door behind her. Sarah noticed a second, dark-haired man in the room; he was there to take over the next part of the interrogation. She looked back and forth at the two men; they gave her greasy smirks.

As the dark-haired man was about to speak, Sarah barked, "If either one of you makes one smarmy comment, I swear I will do things to you that make what I did to Alejandro look like child's play."

The smirks vanished.

Biting off the end of each word maliciously, she ordered, "Open the door."

The door to the hallway was opened. Leaving the two men to do their jobs, Sarah walked out of the room.

She strolled down the long hallway as if nothing had happened, passing only a single security guard on patrol. After giving him a nonchalant nod, she walked past a few more doors. She entered the ladies' room, locking the door behind her, and took a position in front of the lone sink.

She turned both spigots to get the water flowing and pumped some soap onto her hands while the water warmed up. Rubbing her hands together, she tried not to think about what had just happened and all its implications.

The rubbing of her hands unconsciously slowed as the water continued to flow. She found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror, trying to keep the professional air that had served her so well throughout her career. She took a deep breath.

The contents of her stomach violently erupted from her mouth, the contraction in her gut forcing her to lean over the basin. Her stomach clenched again, and a third time. She grasped the cool white walls of the sink to steady herself as her stomach determinedly emptied itself.

A few dry heaves later, the contractions finally stopped. She wiped her mouth, returning the hand to the sink to help keep her balance. Her labored breathing, muffled by the sounds of the flowing tap water, gradually returned to normal.

Slowly, as if afraid of what she might see, Sarah raised her head to confront her reflection. Her hair swung back from her face like curtains and revealed a person she no longer recognized.

Sarah felt a vast emptiness inside of her. All she had left was the aftertaste of bile, the certainty of how Chuck would have reacted had he had seen the interrogation, and the recognition of the dangerous game she was playing by allowing herself to remain anywhere near the man that she loved.


	16. 147 Minutes

**Scene XXXIII – Casey's Apartment**

Casey's living room wasn't a place where a normal person would easily fall asleep. Monitors hummed. Computer equipment whirred. Active LEDs filled the room with a cold, incandescent glow.

None of that kept Chuck awake. To a computer guy like him, such lights and sounds were a soothing lullaby.

No, what kept Chuck awake was the squawking caused by the courtyard motion sensors.

The receiver for the sensor array was stationed on a coffee table at one end of the couch. The first time it had sounded, it was right by his ear. After that, he had wisely turned around so his head was at the other end of the couch, buried beneath the pillow Casey had grudgingly given him from his bed.

As the alarm sounded for the fifth time, Chuck's eyes shot wide open, reflecting his disbelief and irritation. Lying in the semi-dark, he sighed. He had the routine down pat by now.

"Three seconds pass, and Casey comes stumbling down the stairs," Chuck predicted to himself.

Sure enough, the padding of bare feet on tile announced the descent of the still-groggy Casey in a plain white T-shirt and a pair of plaid pajama pants.

"Casey forgets the count of the stairs and nearly trips at the bottom."

The NSA agent tried to take seven steps down the lower staircase, and found that there were only six. He stumbled.

"Casey blames me."

A string of muttered curses exited Casey's mouth as he caught his balance and crossed over to the window. The volume vacillated, so Chuck only caught pieces of the heated words, and he couldn't hear them clearly. As best he could tell, Casey said, "Of all the useless … glorified babysitter … just so the ruttin' Intersect … up every five minutes … gorram Bartowski!"

"You know, you sound like Yosemite Sam when you start inventing curse words like that," Chuck announced.

Casey stopped crossing the room long enough to glare. "Sorry to disturb your slumber, Bartowski, but I thought I might actually try to protect you." He took the last few steps and pulled back one of the slats on the blinds, ducking his head so he could scan the courtyard.

"Protect me from what? Awesome's frat brothers?"

"Worse," Casey commented. "Jeff and Lester."

"They are a pretty serious threat to national security."

"They're about to be a pretty serious threat on the roads. They are tanked."

Chuck bolted upright, the blanket flying off his torso. "Tell me they aren't driving."

"Well, Lester's got his keys out."

Chuck ran across the room, brushing Casey aside so he could see through the blinds. Casey gave Chuck an irritated look; Chuck didn't notice.

Outside, Jeff and Lester were staggering through the courtyard; each was leaning heavily on the other, which was the only thing keeping the pair upright.

Lester burst into a fit of maniacal drunken laughter and dropped his keys. He let go of his friend and bent over to retrieve them, managing to succeed on the third try. Somehow Jeff managed to stay vertical, although he swayed like a tree in a strong breeze.

"Idiots," muttered Casey.

Chuck turned to the agent. "You have to stop them."

"I have to do nothing of the sort. They're big boys, Bartowski. They make their own choices."

"We're not talking a mission, Casey, we're talking about two people we know are about to do something really dangerous."

"You can't save everyone," Casey shrugged. "Some times you have to look at the bigger picture. Some times innocent people need to die so that others can live."

"Well, it must be nice to be able to write off other people's lives like that."

"Look, I don't like it either, but it's not worth the risk."

"What risk? We're talking about hailing a taxi."

"Keeping the Intersect safe has to be the priority. If I go out into that courtyard and get taken out, there is nobody left to protect you. We're not going to compromise our protection of the Intersect to save a pair of drunks." Casey folded his arms. In his mind, the case was closed.

Chuck shook his head. "It's not just them, Casey. Who knows who else it could hurt." Chuck could see what he knew would happen so clearly in his mind. He started describing it for Casey.

* * *

Lester was driving a Nerd Herder on a raised section Los Angeles freeway. He rubbed his face and gripped the wheel with both hands, leaning forward and squinting as he tried to focus on the road.

From the passenger seat, Jeff fiddled with the stereo. He flipped from station to station using the presets, a little beep highlighting each press of a button. After scanning a few stations, a Kanye West rap song came on. His eyes lit up.

In a lethargic, slightly slurred voice, he started singing along, his words trailing the radio by a fraction each time. "Let's get lost tonight … you could be my black Kate Moss tonight … Play secretary I'm the boss tonight…"

Lester looked irritated. "Um, Jeff, you know the rules: driver chooses the station." He hit a preset; the radio beeped, and a whiny Radiohead song replaced the rap. Lester smiled; he joined in the song, swaying side to side as he belted out the lyrics, badly off-key. "Karma police … I've given all I can … it's not enough …"

"Dude, don't bogart the radio." Jeff flipped the station back with another beep and starting rapping again. "Awesome, the Christian in Christian Dior … Damn they don't make 'em like this no more …"

Lester's face tightened. "Jeff, there's a reason your rap group with Morgan went no where. I am begging you: change the station back."

Jeff didn't stop. In fact, he leaned over and obnoxiously started saying the lyrics right in Lester's ear. "I ask 'cause I'm not sure…"

Lester clenched the wheel. Screaming out each word, he yelled, "Jeff! Driver chooses!" He reached down and flipped the station, escalating the war over the stations.

-beep- "This is what you'll get…"

-beep- "Bow in the presence of greatness … for right now thou has forsaken us …"

-beep- "This is what you'll get…"

-beep- "'Cause right now thou has forsaken us…"

Lester gave up any pretension of driving. The two started fighting over the presets in earnest, the radio flipping back and forth as each slapped at the other's hands. Soon, other stations ended up in the mix as both determinedly fought to keep the other from winning.

The car swerved back and forth crazily as the two hunched over, each desperate to get the radio set on his station. Other cars dodged and honked, but neither of the two was deterred.

Jeff leaned down and bit Lester, who screamed. He pushed himself away from Jeff by levering against the radio and against the floor of the car. This had the effect of activating the seek button … and the accelerator.

Feeling the car lurch forward, Lester tried to pull himself up by the steering wheel, but only succeeded in wrenching the wheel to the right. Cutting across three lanes of traffic, the car continued to accelerate. By some miracle, the Nerd Herder avoided any other cars … which gave it plenty of speed to break through a guard rail at the top of an off-ramp.

Time slowed as both realized what was happening. The car seemed to hang in midair.

Both screamed.

-beep- The radio landed on a station. Celine Dion started singing.

"You're here … there's nothing I fear … And I know that my heart will go on …"

Realizing what was playing, they looked at each other. Both screamed again.

The car began to descend. Down below, on a cold street corner in the middle of the night, stood a little girl in her pajamas, clutching a teddy bear and looking decidedly out-of-place. The falling red-and-white car plummeted right for her. Her high-pitched scream filled the night…

* * *

Chuck was snapped back to reality when his neck nearly snapped. He was surprised to discover that he was flying, suspended in the air by iron fists grasping the lapels of his shirt.

The air whooshed from his lungs as Casey threw him against a wall.

"What do you know, Bartowski?!"

Chuck tried to force air back into his lungs and regain his senses at the same time.

Casey didn't give him enough time to form an answer. "Don't you play games with me," he snarled. "Did you flash on me? DID YOU?!"

Pinned hard against the wall, Chuck stared blankly into the manic eyes of the NSA agent. Dumbly, he shook his head. "No, Casey, I didn't…"

One hand slid from Chuck's chest to clench him by his throat. "Damnit, Bartowski, don't lie to me!"

Again, shocked by the intensity, Chuck desperately grasped at Casey's wrist, trying to get Casey to loosen his grip. Unable to do so, he forced out, "No, Casey, I didn't. I swear."

Eyeing Chuck suspiciously, Casey apparently accepted the words and lowered his arms. Chuck had barely found his footing when the NSA agent walked towards the door. Chuck coughed again and rubbed at his bruised Adam's apple.

He hunched over, hands on knees, as he looked at the back of the retreating agent. "You mind telling me what that was about?"

Casey turned back to face him when he reached the foyer. "None of your goddamn business." He turned and opened the closet, pulling out a coat and a pistol. He put the coat on and slipped the gun into a pocket.

Chuck's eyes narrowed. His story had somehow struck a nerve. What was it? It certainly wasn't the Celine Dion song. The little girl was the only element of the story that made any sense. But why would a little girl with a teddy bear set Casey off like that?

Seeing a chance to get Casey to open up, he didn't want to let the opportunity pass. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm going to stop a pair of idiots before they do something stupid. You stay put."

He punched a series of numbers into the panel by the door, one disarming the system and one re-arming it. He opened the door and disappeared into the night, leaving a baffled Chuck staring after him, too confused even to be grateful for Casey's intervention with Jeff and Lester.

**Scene XXXIV – Los Angeles Streets**

Sarah carefully examined the parking lot as the door to the CIA facility sighed shut behind her. Her car looked lonely, sitting by itself under the closest lamppost. The desolate parking lot made it easier to scan for potential danger. There was none.

She pulled out her key fob and hit a combination of buttons; a series of CIA-installed diagnostics ran. The headlights flashed twice, indicating that they detected nothing unusual had been done to the car in her absence. She pressed another combination of buttons, and the car remote started.

Only then did she leave the top step and descend to the parking lot. After all she had been through today, a little extra caution certainly didn't hurt. As a last measure, she chose a convoluted route back to the highway to ensure she wasn't shadowed.

Fifteen minutes later, the Porsche roared down the freeway. Its black silhouette flickered into and out of the light cast by fixtures mounted high above the concrete. Ahead, the road was largely devoid of the usual L.A. traffic as more and more people headed home for the night.

Finally, Sarah was comfortable enough with her situation to allow her mind to wander.

Normally, Sarah enjoyed nighttime drives like these. With fewer cars on the road, it allowed her to decompress and, when necessary, to shed the unpleasantness that her job often required. However, Sarah was finding it more difficult than usual to unwind.

Tonight should have been a cause for celebration. She had interrogated two Los Mellizos mercenaries, unflappable, ruthless people who routinely performed unspeakable acts, and it had taken her all of 147 minutes to break them. It was a true testament to her ability and dedication as an agent. Even Graham had said as much, and he doled out praise sparingly, to put it mildly.

Truth be told, Elsa and Alejandro had ended up telling them very little that they didn't already know. The Los Mellizos cartel was working with Fulcrum. Fulcrum agents had found out that she and Bryce were the agents responsible for attacking the AUC and had helped position the mercenaries to find her and exact their revenge. All of that was known to or suspected by the CIA.

The interrogation did reveal three new pieces of information. Fulcrum was looking for three agents besides her: Bryce Larkin and two others. Unfortunately, with their singular focus on avenging the AUC attack, the Los Mellizos henchmen could not remember the names of the other agents.

Fulcrum was also looking for three items: a book, a pair of boots, and a PDA. As luck would have it, her team had already found two of the three items: the book was in the vault at Chuck's, while the boots were at the CIA facility. She had no idea what, or where, the PDA was.

They had also learned the code name of the Fulcrum leader: 'Proteus'. While it didn't help much in practical ways, it was a psychological victory of sorts. It was the first penetration of any kind into the Fulcrum leadership, and it was a boost to morale. Both she and Graham felt that it was unlikely that they would have any hits, but they would check the usual channels to see if the name 'Proteus' turned up anything. Their best chance would be if Chuck could flash on the name.

Even though they didn't learn much from the captives, tonight should have been a cause for celebration. Instead, she found herself doubting what she was doing with Chuck once again.

She was still shocked that her body had betrayed her like that. She hadn't thrown up after a mission since her first year out of the academy. In fact, she hadn't come close, and her interrogation was tame compared to some of the other things she had seen … or done.

Her stomach churned.

It wasn't hard to figure out what triggered the reaction. It had to be Chuck. Elsa's parting shot at her had brought Chuck to mind, and try as she might, she was having difficulty dismissing the threat.

After all, if it wasn't Elsa or Alejandro, it could just as easily be somebody else. She had enemies from past missions who might come seeking revenge, and that wasn't going to change.

Of course, any agent worth his salt would have a set of enemies, and therefore any handler the CIA brought in would present the same potential danger. She knew this. So was that really what was bothering her so much?

Another thought occurred to her. Sarah had broken two strong-willed mercenaries in record time because of their romantic relationship. She couldn't help but draw the parallels to her and Chuck. If Fulcrum captured both of them, she had little doubt that Chuck would cave and reveal anything they wanted to know at the slightest threat to her.

She had been so certain she had figured out how to handle things like that while dating Chuck; she had gone over them all in her mind, and had convinced herself that she could handle anything. One hundred forty-seven minutes of her own interrogation techniques had disabused her of that notion. Had she been sitting in Elsa's chair, she wasn't sure she would have lasted that long.

Still, while Chuck was growing braver with each passing mission, she didn't give him much of a chance to withstand a full-fledged interrogation. It really didn't matter if she was being threatened or not. And if interrogators were focused on her, that would mean they weren't focused on the Intersect, which could only be good. So, really, nothing there was a problem either. Again, she knew this.

She frowned. Was it guilt that she might be setting Chuck up for trouble after she left?

Even thinking the words made her shiver a bit.

The Intersect knowledge in Chuck's head was becoming more out-of-date each day, and without an update, his flashes were growing less and less valuable. As time went on, Chuck's importance as an asset would only decrease. Eventually, Sarah would be moved on to higher priorities, and Sarah would be replaced with a less-skilled handler. That didn't rule out the Elsa's of the world coming back to exact their revenge, and Chuck wouldn't be as well-protected.

The reality was that she was one of the CIA's best operatives, and Graham was starting to pressure her to start training a replacement. Sarah had managed to stave Graham off by agreeing to accept other missions from time to time. She was already briefing for another mission later the next week, and once again, she wouldn't be able to warn Chuck before she left. Once again, a replacement would be brought in, one who probably was less skilled ... and might be Fulcrum. That risk was not going away.

She was left with bad choices: either she continued to take the other assignments or she had to let somebody else become Chuck's handler. If she took other assignments, she would either suddenly find herself parachuting out of planes on another continent on short notice, possibly leaving him to deal with people looking to settle a score with her. The former would rip her away from Chuck with little warning and the latter put his life in danger. Neither was good.

Of course, letting somebody else be Chuck's handler meant she would never see him again. She would have to leave.

Words from their earlier conversation echoed in her ears. _Maybe you should leave_, he said.

_Maybe I should_, she thought morosely. _At least then he wouldn't find out who I really am._

Her stomach churned again. Fighting to suppress the sick feeling, she checked her mirrors and slipped over a lane to merge onto another freeway.

As much as she tried to avoid the thought, the revelation had been realizing how Chuck would react if he had seen her in action tonight. The things she had done were necessary, almost normal in her line of work. He didn't what she was capable of doing. He really didn't know her.

Even worse, before she met Chuck, she wouldn't have batted an eye at conducting that type of interrogation. Now, all she could think about is what Chuck would think if he saw her in action in that room. How could a man like Chuck ever truly love a woman capable of such acts?

She knew the answer: he couldn't. He deserved better than her.

Without really thinking about it, she found herself going the extra exit on the freeway. The first exit was the more direct way to her hotel, but if she waited until the second exit, she could turn left to go to her hotel – or turn right to head to Chuck's apartment. By going to the second light, she could keep hope alive for a little bit longer that she would find some excuse to turn right.

She guided her car down the off-ramp and glided to a halt at the red light. Part of her wanted so much to go to Chuck's, to sneak in through his window and slide into bed next to him. She wanted to curl up close to him and let him wrap his arms around her. She wanted to look into his kind eyes and, for just a moment, be the good and decent person that he saw when he looked at her. However, she was not that person, and tonight was simply a pointed reminder of that.

All too quickly, the light turned green. She sighed heavily. Flipping on her turn signal, she made the only choice she could: she turned left and retreated to the cold starkness of her hotel room.

**Scene XXXV – Darkened Room**

Proteus slammed an open hand onto his desk, jarring the three people on the split video monitor.

"Let me get this straight," he said in an ominous tone. "You idiots accomplished ONE of the tasks I set forth?!"

The Shadow cleared his throat. "Sir, we attempted the incursion to the warehouse as you directed, allowing three of my men to be taken down to lend the attack credibility. It seemed to produce the desired results: Agents Walker, Bartowski and Casey all came down to investigate why we would attack and found the boots."

Jennings added, "My request to General Beckman was fulfilled, as Agents Casey and Bartowski came down to the Veron estate to meet with me."

The Shadow added, "As expected, Agent Walker took the boots back to the local headquarters. One of my agents went with her, and not only had secured the boots, but also had the book and Agent Walker under his control."

"And…?" Proteus asked.

"We're not sure what happened. We believe he and two other members of our cell were captured. Their location, as well as the location of the book and the boots, are unknown at this time, although the CIA facility would be our best guess."

Proteus shifted his eyes to Jennings. "What happened with your meeting with Agents Bartowski and Casey?"

"The meeting went as well as it could have gone. I didn't have to work to get Agent Casey alone; he approached me. I found common ground, verified what we learned from his psychological profile about his reservations about the DNI, and he left conflicted. I believe we will successfully recruit him."

"That remains to be seen. What about the PDA? I had to pull several strings to get Veron's belongings returned to his estate."

Jennings swallowed. "I believe Agent Bartowski now has the PDA."

Proteus simply stared at Jennings for a long moment; the representative twisted under the intense gaze. Finally, Proteus withdrew his eyes; Jennings almost sighed with relief.

"So, basically, we lost six men for nothing."

The Shadow said, "I took matters into my own hands, and I was able to surprise a courier bringing the book to Agent Casey this evening." The Shadow held up the book so Proteus could see it.

"Oh, I stand corrected. We lost six men for nothing, and I'm supposed to feel better because you happened to surprise a courier and lucked into obtaining one of the items. Tell me: would you categorize today as a success, or as a failure?"

Taken aback by the vehemence of the comments, the Shadow paused to assess before answering. "A failure, sir."

"Indeed. Meanwhile, the useless henchmen that Los Mellizos sent us just up and vanished. I don't suppose any of you know what happened to them."

General silence and shaking of heads answered his questions.

"So we lost eight men and gained the book. Terrific." Proteus eyed each of the men in turn; he turned back to the Shadow. "Your entire cell was outmaneuvered by a single agent. Tomorrow, the failures end – or I will end you. Clear enough?"

The Shadow nodded grimly.

Proteus addressed Jennings. "You will provide any support needed. If the Shadow fails, you fail. Clear enough?" Jennings also nodded, although all the blood had drained from his face.

"What about you?" Proteus asked of Moreno. "Tell me you have some better news."

Moreno looked a little more confident than his peers. "Agent Larkin has been shadowing me for the past twelve hours. I've left him an apparent opening to attack me a couple of times, but he hasn't made a move. My guess is that he's trying to ascertain my mission – which, of course, is suspended." Moreno said the last with a bit of a growl. "I've got a plan to encourage him to make a move, but it may take a bit."

"Don't get cute. What you are doing is the single-most important task assigned to any Fulcrum agent. More than anything else, we need the Intersect."

"This is Bryce Larkin we're talking about. He was one of the best the CIA had before he got the Intersect in his head. You don't take him down unless you force him to meet you on your terms, and I know just the way to do that."

* * *

_Ed. Note - Thanks again to Go-Chuck-Go for the beta and the advice. All mistakes are my own..._


	17. In For a Penny, In For a Pound

**Scene XXXVI – Casey's Apartment**

Chuck awoke to a series of banging sounds from the kitchen. From the smell of cooked eggs in the air, he had managed to sleep through a fair bit of Casey's efforts. That wasn't a surprise, given how late he had been awake.

The motion sensor alerts had become less and less frequent as the night went on, stopping altogether some time after 3:00 am, when the last of Devon's frat brothers had trounced noisily through the courtyard, belting out "Sweet Home Alabama" at the top of their lungs. Chuck had rather petulantly decided not to see if they, too, might be considering driving when they shouldn't, and then proceeded to feel so guilty about it that he couldn't fall asleep for a long while.

He wondered whether he could steal another hour of sleep. Casey answered the question for him.

"Rise and shine, Bartowski," he called from the kitchen.

Chuck reluctantly unglued his eyelids and opened his eyes into slits. He had a splitting headache, likely caused when Casey was tossing him around like a rag doll, and a bruised throat, definitely left behind by Casey's iron grip. That, combined with the fatigue from a poor night's sleep, left Chuck feeling less than full strength.

He tried to clear his throat, and only partially succeeded. Hoarsely, he pled, "I'm sure the bad guys won't mind if I grab another few minutes of sleep."

Casey looked over his shoulder as he dumped the contents of the small skillet onto a plate. "C'mon, Bartowski: we've got a country to protect. Freedom isn't free."

"Well, maybe we can work out a deal and I can put it on layaway or something." He reluctantly sat up, pushing the blanket to the side; he was only partially successful in his effort to disentangle himself in the process. He hunched over, trying to decide which discomfort to address first.

After a couple of minutes, Casey plopped down in a chair adjacent to the couch; he set down his cup of coffee on the table and began devouring a nice-looking vegetable omelet.

Chuck's stomach growled. Food should definitely be first, he decided.

He pulled himself onto his feet and walked over to the kitchen. He was a bit disconcerted to find that not only had Casey made just enough for himself, but he had already put away the food and washed the dishes.

Looking back over his shoulder, Chuck called, "No, really, thanks but no thanks. I hear breakfast is only one of the three most important meals of the day anyway." He surveyed the kitchen for a piece of fruit or anything that might temporarily placate his stomach, and came up empty.

"What, it isn't enough that I protect you; you also want me to feed you? Next you'll be wanting turn-down service and a mint on your pillow every night. Maybe a tuck-in and a bedtime story?"

"Yeah, I imagine your bedtime stories would be nice and relaxing. What would be on your reading list: 'Charlie and the Munitions Factory'? 'The Lion, the Witch, and the Marine Battalion?' Or maybe some Seuss: 'There's a Rocket in my Pocket?'"

"That last one sounds like your kind of story."

"Cute. Mind if I have some coffee?"

"Only if you take it black. I don't have cream or sugar."

Chuck wasn't in a position to argue: he needed the caffeine. He rummaged through the cabinets looking for a mug. It barely registered that most of the cabinets contained electronic equipment and toolkits of various sorts rather than plates and glasses. "Casey…" he called a bit plaintively.

"Last cabinet on the right, bottom shelf." Inside, Chuck found three generic ceramic plates, four matching bowls, four glasses, a pair of plastic cups from In'n'Out Burger and six coffee mugs. He grabbed one at random; the large red writing on the white mug read, 'Eyes open, mouth shut, safety off'.

Chuck grunted and let his eyes fall most of the way closed as he trudged to the coffee maker. There was a mostly full pot of coffee; if he were at all conscious, he probably would have noticed the slight hazelnut smell. He poured himself a cup and took a long, grateful drink.

"By the way," Casey called, pausing to swallow his bite, "it's decaffeinated."

"What?"

"Caffeine makes me edgy."

"So, wait, this whole assignment has been you -not- edgy?"

Casey gave Chuck a pointed look. "There's plenty of other things on this assignment to make me edgy."

Chuck took another sip; despite the lack of caffeine, the warm liquid seemed to help. He headed back for the couch. "So what's on tap for today?"

"Dunno. Fulcrum's clearly up to something, but we don't have anything that really helps us. Walker took the boots over to the CIA facility yesterday, and the book is gone. We'll need to send in the two lines of code you translated." He paused to take a sip of coffee. "Unless Walker has something new, we're at a dead end."

Something tickled the back of Chuck's mind. Something important. Something lost in the excitement, if you could call it that, of nearly dying on Casey's front porch.

It came to him. "What about the PDA?"

"What PDA?"

"The PDA I took from …" Chuck stopped cold. He'd forgotten to tell either of his teammates.

"It works better if you actually say the important part."

Chuck sheepishly said, "The PDA I took from the cave at Veron's."

"What?!"

"I went through Veron's things while you were talking to Jennings, and I flashed on the PDA. It's a PDA, but it's also much more: you can download and encode the entire Intersect onto it."

"And you just left it lying around your room?"

"Relax, it's in the secure vault."

"The WHAT?!"

"I'm so glad you switched to decaf. I'd really hate to see you 'edgy'."

Casey gritted his teeth. "What vault?"

"The vault in the floor of my closet. It's pretty cool: it rises up out of the floor, has a double-encrypted pass-code interface and everything." Sensing Casey's aggravation was only growing, Chuck hastily added, "Don't get ticked at me. It's not like the government trusts me enough to let me request something like that."

"Apparently the government can't trust you to cross the courtyard without one of us holding your hand."

"That was a bit below the belt."

"True. Accurate, but below the belt." Clearly feeling better after the cheap shot, the agent downshifted back to business. "So what do we do with the PDA?"

Chuck shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "What else do you do with a PDA? You check out the contacts and the calendar."

* * *

After making sure the courtyard was empty, Chuck slipped back through his window, carefully closing it behind him. He stopped and listened for a moment; he heard Devon and Ellie wandering around the living room, dumping beer bottles into trash bags.

Trying to stay quiet, he went to the closet and activated the vault. The sound of hissing air escaping the lift seemed far louder than it had against the backdrop of the party. Glancing around anxiously, as if that would somehow help him detect anyone heading towards his room, he reached down into the storage chamber.

As his fingertips brushed the PDA, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching his door. He desperately snatched the PDA from its resting place and shut the lid to the vault as carefully as he could. He shut the closet door, slipped the PDA into a pants pocket and trying to look innocent as he could. Behind him, he heard the vault descend into the floor.

The footsteps stopped near the door as Ellie cleared a pair of beer bottles from the floor with a loud clinking noise. She started talking to Devon about party the previous night; her words became fuzzy and indistinct as she headed back towards the main part of the apartment.

Chuck shoved the PDA into his pocket and stole a peek into the closet to ensure the vault had seated itself properly back into the floor. It had; so he went to his computer and quickly formatted a printable version of the lines he had translated.

While the document printed, he changed clothes. He and Casey were going to need to stop in to see if they could crack the security on the PDA. And for that, they needed to make a quick trip to the Buy More.

With the threat of discovery passed, his adrenaline quickly fled, leaving him feeling dull and listless. He stared at his flat expression in the mirror as he buttoned his plain white work shirt, realizing that he looked just as tired as he felt.

By his count, in the past seventy-two hours he had acquired a maybe-girlfriend that he couldn't really be alone with, a secure vault in his closet that the CIA had installed without his sister's knowledge, and a high-end PDA that he personally had stolen from a DEA-controlled crime scene. He had watched an apparently-dead Sarah wheeled out of a burning store on a stretcher, and later been threatened at gunpoint and rendered blind not fifteen paces from where he now stood.

The last book he had read actually concealed a list of media contacts for confirming terrorist activities, and not five minutes ago, an NSA agent listened in as Chuck sneaked around his own room so his sister wouldn't hear what he was doing.

"Life has to get less complicated at some point," he said to himself as he finished tying his tie. "Doesn't it?"

**Scene XXXVII – Casa Bartowski**

Ellie rushed across the apartment in response to the knocking at her door, using a dish towel to dry her hands as she went. Opening the door, she found Sarah sporting a forced smile. She wore a cute little red tank top that left most of her shoulders and neck bare, but was obviously paying the price: she was shivering noticeably in the cool morning air. Her shoulders were lifted, as if that would somehow help to protect her exposed skin.

"Sarah?!" Ellie exclaimed. "Good grief, what are you doing? It's freezing out there!" She stepped aside so Sarah could stiffly enter the apartment.

Sarah rubbed her upper arms with her hands to try to create a little heat. "I know, I know. I really thought I had a sweatshirt in my car, but I must have left it somewhere."

Ellie shut the door and gave Sarah a maternal look. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"Please."

After offering a warm smile, Ellie bustled off to the kitchen. Sarah dropped her purse in a chair and stood near the counter, rubbing her hands together in anticipation. Quickly, Ellie handed Sarah a mug of hot coffee that she smothered between her hands. Offering her own smile as a thank-you, Sarah took a long sip. She held her arms close to her body, looking like she was trying to huddle against the warmth seeping through the off-white ceramic mug.

A question came to Ellie's face. "Hey, I thought I saw you sneak off with my brother at the party last night. You didn't spend the night?"

The friendly smile on Sarah's face faded. Strangely, her expression looked almost guilty. She took another sip of coffee, and suddenly the smile was back. "I ended up heading home last night. I didn't have a change of clothes, wanted to clean up a bit … you know how it goes."

Something about the explanation rang hollow to Ellie. Still, she didn't want to seem rude. "Of course," she lied.

"Is Chuck here?" Sarah asked, looking around.

That confirmed Ellie's suspicions. Sarah didn't know where Chuck was? "No, Chuck headed out about fifteen minutes ago. Said he needed to run over to the Buy More." Trying to keep the conversation light, she added, "I swear, that boy puts in more time over there. It's almost like he thinks it's a real job."

Sarah's face became defensive. "It is a real job to Chuck. Chuck takes it seriously."

Ellie picked up her own cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. "I know he takes it seriously, but I wonder why. I mean, it's a Buy More. Chuck went to Stanford. He's capable of so much more."

"Yes, he is." A subtle smile came to Sarah's face.

Ellie noticed the blonde was playing with the necklace Chuck gave her for Christmas. Sarah's eyes drifted. Ellie was dying to know what Sarah was thinking, but resisted the urge to ask. She was content enough with the positive sign.

Unbidden, another comment came to Ellie's lips. She managed to suppress the words at the last moment, deciding that saying anything was a bad idea. She looked away and took another sip from her mug, hoping Sarah wouldn't notice.

No such luck. "You were going to say something?" Sarah asked.

Ellie sighed, realizing she had been caught. She tried to approach what she had wanted to ask obliquely. "You know I love my brother, right?"

Sarah nodded.

"And you probably know that I stick my nose into his business far more than I should."

"I think everyone knows that." Sarah's face broke into a fairly big grin.

Feeling sheepish, Ellie pressed on. "What I wanted to ask is whether you understand why Chuck is still content with working at the Buy More. I mean, you two are so alike in some ways. Don't take this the wrong way, but I can't begin to figure out how somebody like you ends up serving hot dogs at a Weinerlicious."

Predictably, Sarah's face tightened, as it often did when discussing anything associated with her.

Ellie tried to backpedal and state her case at the same time. "I know, I know, I'm probably overstepping my bounds here. It's just that the two of you seem capable of doing such great things, pretty much anything you put your minds to doing. I mean, I'm a doctor, so I'm no idiot. Still, I'm smart enough to know that both you and Chuck blow me away when it comes to intelligence. So why the Buy More?" After a moment, she added in a quieter voice, "Why the Weinerlicious?"

Sarah was silent for a long moment. Her expression was the very slightest bit wild, something that most people would overlook, but not Ellie.

The conversation stalled. Sensing Sarah wasn't going to answer, Ellie decided she needed to say something to fill the void. "You may have noticed that I don't hold Morgan in the highest regard."

Sarah laughed, obviously thankful for the seeming change in subject as much as the excuse to laugh. "Yes, it's safe to say I've noticed."

"Well, it's not just the creepy way he's stalked me since I was fourteen. What bothers me about Morgan is that I've always felt that he holds Chuck back. When Chuck went off to Stanford, he finally started to realize his potential … until the whole Bryce thing, that is."

Looking away for a moment, Ellie was surprised to find that the incident still pained her as if it had happened yesterday. She recovered quickly; she forced herself to smile as she looked at Sarah to hide some of the sadness. "Anyway, after Chuck came back, Morgan made it OK for Chuck to work at the Buy More. As first, I thought it would just be a phase, but now it's been OK for well over five years. And I guess…"

Ellie trailed off, unable to find a gentle way to repeat her thought.

Sarah finished her sentence, "…having a girlfriend who finds it OK to work at the Weinerlicious is just more of the same?"

Ellie hoped her face showed how much it hurt her to say this to Sarah. She could sense the tension; she found herself almost holding her breath.

Finally, Sarah said, "You do realize that you just compared me to Morgan."

Ellie stared at Sarah for a moment, wondering how serious the blonde was being. When the corners of the other woman's mouth turned up, Ellie let out a chagrined laugh. Sarah's smile grew broader, even joining in the laugh at the end.

Ellie said, "Please understand that I don't think you're holding Chuck back. Honestly, he's changed so much for the better since you've been around. You're so good for him."

"Of course I understand. You love your brother, and you watch out for him. In all honesty, I kind of wondered when you were going to ask me about this." She paused. "I guess the question just caught me a bit off guard."

Relief flooded across Ellie's face. "Really?"

"Ellie, I've known how you watch after your brother since before I met you. Chuck told me all about you on our first date, for crying out loud."

"Oh, no! I told him not …"

"Oh, it was fine." Sarah looked as directly at Ellie as she ever had. "He cares a great deal about you, you know. He wants to make you proud of him."

"I know he does. I just want him to be happy."

"So do I, Ellie."

Ellie looked fondly at Sarah. "And I know that, too."

Suddenly, Sarah appeared uncomfortable again, glancing around the room almost as if trying to assess her escape options.

Ellie was puzzled. That tiny bit of affection made Sarah uncomfortable? She wondered how her brother, so open and emotional and liking the same in other people, would deal with those kind of barriers. Or had he found some way around them?

At least this time, Sarah kept talking despite her defenses coming up. "I've told Chuck a number of times that I'm lousy with relationships. That certainly extends to the families of the guys that I've dated."

"You do fine."

"Thanks, but I'm pretty sure I don't. Anyway, I'm not sure what I can offer you to reassure you, but would it help ease your mind if I told you that I'm doing my best to look after Chuck?"

"I know you are; I just wish…"

"…that I didn't work at a Weinerlicious?"

Ellie shook her head. "No. Well, a little"

Sarah smiled.

Taking a deep breath, Ellie said, "More than anything, I wish that whatever it is that keeps getting between you two gets resolved."

The smile vanished.

_In for a penny, in for a pound,_ Ellie thought. "It's obvious that something keeps coming between you two. I don't know what it is or what causes it, but it's obvious, at least to me. I've seen Chuck come home at odd times after being out with you, some times exhausted, some times distraught – and some times as happy as I've ever seen him. I've seen you two together at times where neither of you ever wants to let the other go, and the other times where neither of you seems to know what to do. And then there's nights like last night, where the two of you disappear together, and then I find out that something happened and the two of you each wake up alone."

Sarah's face went flat. "You may be right about sticking your nose too far into his business, Ellie." She turned away and headed for Chuck's room.

Desperation swelled in Ellie's chest; she felt her face scrunch up into a pained expression. "Sarah, wait," she called.

Sarah turned back. "What?"

"I say this to you not as the sister of your boyfriend, but as your friend. I have no idea what keeps getting in between you two, but I do know that if you two don't figure it out, it can only lead to you two splitting up – and I don't want to see that happen. I really, really don't want to see that happen."

Ellie was relieved to see some of the tension drain from Sarah's face, replaced by uncertainty. Still, all too soon the other woman turned and left the room without saying another word. Ellie heard Chuck's door open and then shut firmly.

She let out a long sigh and pursed her lips. She wondered what kind of events, good or bad, she had just set into motion.


	18. Breaking Points

**Scene XXXVIII – Buy More, Big Mike's Office**

A line of employees stood across the desk from their seated boss. A bright-eyed Morgan stood between the bleary-eyed figures of Jeff and Lester. Anna stood to one side with crossed arms and a bored expression.

"What are you idiots doing?" Big Mike demanded.

The employees glanced at each other, confused by their boss' question. Morgan hesitantly asked, "Is that a trick question? You called us in–"

The store manager leaned forward. "You boneheads should be studying. We've got assessment exams in less than twenty-four hours, and you guys are just standing around the store, gossiping like high school cheerleaders the day after prom."

Anna said, "Ah, cheerleaders. So naïve, so innocent – before I got to them, anyway."

Lester turned to her. "What, you had male cheerleaders at your school?"

Her eyes gleamed wickedly. "Nope."

Big Mike glared at the group. "Enough! You guys are wasting valuable study time. Get going!"

Morgan gave his boss a frank look. "C'mon, Big Mike. You know as well as I do that almost none of us are going to pass that exam."

"Now where in the world did you get that kind of attitude, Grimes?"

Morgan's gaze petulantly danced to one side of the room. "I don't know. Maybe it's the way you demean us at every opportunity."

Lester said, "Constantly tell us we'll never amount to anything."

"Address us with phrases like 'you idiots'," Anna suggested.

"I don't know, Big Mike," Morgan said. "Seems like we ended up exactly like you said we would: incompetent, ineffectual lackeys incapable of living up to the Buy More standard."

Big Mike's eyes narrowed. "I never said that."

Lester said, "No, you put it in the employee newsletter and slipped highlighted copies into our lockers. Was that called for?" He shook his head in answer to his own question. "I don't think so."

Morgan walked around the desk and put a hand on Mike's shoulder. He sighed melodramatically. "That exam is going to be a disaster. But you know what the irony of all this is, big man?"

The store manager shook his head.

"You just couldn't be bothered to hire a new assistant manager. And without an assistant manager…" Morgan trailed off meaningfully.

Big Mike stared pensively into space. "…there's nobody for me to pin the blame on," he finished.

Morgan chucked Big Mike on the shoulder. "Check and mate, my friend. Check and mate." He walked past the others and out the door. Anna gave a small, forced smile and followed him.

Jeff stared dumbly at Big Mike for a moment before giving an awkward wave and wandering off as well.

Lester stepped around the desk and held out his hand. Still stunned, Big Mike shook it without thinking. "Nice working with you, sir." He leaned over, and in a quiet, conspiratorial voice added, "If you could put in a good word for me with the next manager…"

Big Mike yanked his hand away. "Get out of here, Patel!"

Lester shook his head. "See, this is exactly the type of thing we were talking about." Continuing to shake his head at Big Mike, Lester walked away, leaving his bewildered boss sitting alone in his office.

**Scene XXXIX – Los Angeles Streets, Dark Red Sedan**

Chuck longed for just one day that wouldn't begin with him heading into the Buy More. At this point, he felt like he could drive there in his sleep. In fact, he was beginning to wonder whether he wasn't doing just that.

He kept himself awake in part by listening to Casey. The agent finished reading the individual characters from the lines that Chuck had translated to an NSA analyst on the phone. "Romeo. Alpha. Victor. Echo. Zulu." He paused for a second. "That's everything."

After another long pause, Casey said, "Roger that," and hung up.

"So what happens next?" Chuck asks.

"We'll call the reporters to let them know that their contact codes have been compromised. We'll verify that we have taps on those lines and listen carefully in case a Fulcrum agent calls in. Problem is that it sounds like that little phone book had other names, so we're only defusing a pair of potential misinformation sources."

"That's it? That's all we can do?"

"Unless you have any other suggestions, Brainiac. These reporters probably won't get a whiff of what's happening until after it happens, so the best we can do is to ensure the reporters that we know about aren't used to reassign blame for an attack."

"It just doesn't seem like much."

"It isn't much. Some times there isn't much we can do, even when we know something is going to happen. Frustrating, isn't it?"

Chuck nodded.

Casey shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "What the hell is this thing, anyway?"

"What thing?"

"Ellie's car. I've never seen one like it."

The lanky man grinned at the NSA agent. "This, my friend, is a 2002 Skoda Riptide."

"It's a junk heap." Casey fiddled with the paneling that was pulling away from the door for emphasis.

Chuck took mock offense to Casey's comment. "I'll have you know the Riptide represents the pinnacle of Czechoslovakian automotive technology. Born of a short-lived effort to break into the American market, this four-door beauty scored three full stars for value in Consumer Reports. It has best-in-class rollover protection, comes standard with pleather bucket seats and two cupholders…"

"…and goes from zero to sixty in just under five minutes. What is it with your family and crappy cars?"

"Ellie got this car straight out of med school while she carried about thirty grand in student loans. Her options were limited, and the two months after the purchase would make a fascinating case study on buyer's remorse." Chuck laughed. "You should have seen Devon's reaction when she brought her home."

The agent wrinkled his nose as he looked around the interior. "Man, I never thought anything would make me long for the Nerdmobile."

"Well, a Herder is currently out of our reach. Seemed like it would be a bad idea to borrow one for personal use while the auditors are in town."

The car sputtered and threatened to stall for no apparent reason. Casey raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

"There's a reason I usually drive a Herder around," Chuck admitted.

The pair was quiet for a few minutes. Chuck focused on the road, while Casey mostly stared out the window, leaning forward occasionally to check traffic behind them using the undersized side mirror.

Chuck found himself missing Sarah. They had parted on a down note, and so much had happened since she had driven off, but he still wished she could be there. She just made everything easier. Better.

Without really considering whether it was a smart thing to do, he blurted, "I still don't see why we couldn't have included Sarah on our little field trip."

"What, looking to dunk your Oreo into her milk?"

Chuck stared at Casey for a long moment, probably longer than a driver of a moving vehicle really should. "No, I don't want to dunk my Oreo into her milk. I also don't want to dip my chicken strip in her honey mustard, slather my biscuit with her gravy, or see how many licks it takes to get to the center of her Tootsie roll pop." He barely mustered enough air to finish his tirade.

"Stuck on the food analogies this morning, I see."

"Maybe you should have fed me something besides coffee."

Chuck flipped on his signal and turned right into the parking lot. He navigated the asphalt maze and nestled the Riptide in a spot three rows away from the Buy More.

Casey looked over from the passenger seat; somehow little of his intimidation factor was sapped by his Buy More uniform. "Walker doesn't have clearance to know about the Veron apprehension. The PDA…"

"…is something that she can't know about. Right."

The pair exited the car and headed for the store. "I thought that type of internal game-playing ticks you off. Don't you hate it when the intelligence community works hard to keep secrets from itself?"

"I do."

"Then why do you keep playing the game?"

"Orders, Bartowski."

"You fall back on that an awful lot."

"It makes things simpler."

"Does it make your job simpler when somebody else uses that logic and doesn't tell you everything?"

For once, Casey lacked a clever comeback.

The automatic sliding doors opened in front of the pair. "Let me know what you find," Casey said as way of goodbye. Much to his chagrin, the agent had to work a full docket. The upside was it gave Chuck an excuse to slip into the store and use some of the Buy More equipment to unlock the PDA and examine its contents.

Scanning the store for the auditors and spotting none, Chuck made a beeline for the cage area, giving his friends standing by the Nerd Herd desk a perfunctory wave along the way.

* * *

Morgan waved back at Chuck, giving his buddy a big smile before turning back to Anna, Lester and Jeff.

"I feel kind of bad," Morgan said. "Maybe I was a bit hard on the big guy."

"Absolutely not," Anna exclaimed. "If it came down to him or us, who do you think he would choose?"

Lester said, "Definitely me. My people have always been persecuted."

"Isn't that something you should take up with the British, not the manager of a Buy More?"

He glared at Anna. "Not the Indian people, the Jewish people, you nitwit."

"Oh, sorry. I forgot how deeply you follow the Jewish traditions," she said sarcastically.

"See what I mean about persecution?" Lester asked Jeff, who nodded.

Anna said, "By the way, I know you were hustling us at Christmas with the dreidel. I looked up the rules."

Lester sputtered incoherently. "Are you implying that I would cheapen my chosen religion merely to make a few bucks?"

"I'm implying that if I don't get my $50 back, you'll find yourself with bubkes in your gatkes." She brandished her fingernails menacingly. "Kapish?"

Stunned, he could only nod. Satisfied, she walked away.

"Did I just get threatened in Yiddish?" he asked nobody in particular.

Jeff suddenly straightened up. "Do you guys smell donuts?"

Morgan put an eager hand on a shoulder of each of his friend. His face filled with intensity as he sniffed the air. "This way," he said in an almost reverent whisper.

He slowly crossed the store, Lester and Jeff in tow, as he tracked the sweet scent like a pedigreed bloodhound. Other employees noticed his actions and quickly figured out that there was free food to be had. Soon, they all trailed behind him, whispering to each other, "Donuts!"

The trail led to the door to the break room hallway. The doors swung outward; Big Mike stood blocking the way.

Shoulders slumped. Expressions drooped. The employees clearly expected an angry rant from the big man.

Shockingly, rather than laying into his employees for the umpteenth time, Big Mike's face softened. Stumbling over some of his words, he contritely said, "Guys, I know I don't always show it, but I've enjoyed our time working together. So, I picked up some more donuts. There will also be…"

The crowd swam past Big Mike, jostling and pushing to get past. Soon, Big Mike stood forlornly in the doorway, alone once more. "There will also be donuts tomorrow," he said to the suddenly empty space around him. "I don't think there will be any donuts on Tuesday." He shuffled off towards his office.

* * *

Jeff, Lester and Morgan again led the charge to the break room door. Morgan threw the door open and entered, only to find the three maroon-shirted beauties standing between the mob and a pyramid of half-empty donut boxes on the table. Each finished the last of a donut with one hand as they held a full coffee pot over the top of the pile of open boxes, threatening to pour.

Morgan's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

In response, the women tipped the pots over to pour a stream of hot, dark liquid over the uneaten donuts, careful to ruin every last bit of sweet, chewy goodness.

"NOOOOO!" Jeff cried. He turned to Lester. "What kind of cruel god would torment me so?! Tell me!" Jeff started sobbing uncontrollably on Lester's shoulder.

The auditors stared at Jeff, clearly not expecting that strong a reaction. Lester gave the three women an uncertain shrug, as best he could with Jeff's head on his shoulder. "He … really likes donuts."

Jeff dropped to his knees and sobbed piteously, clutching at his sides.

Their work done, the three women wordlessly set down the empty coffee pots and slipped out the back door to the break room, malicious smiles on their faces.

Silence, except for Jeff's cries and coffee dripping into pools on the floor, filled the room. Nobody seemed to know quite how to react.

A look of resolution came to Morgan's face. He suddenly knew what he had to do.

He walked forward, eyeing the sodden boxes of donuts for inspiration, and then dramatically swiveled to face the group.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I've had enough. I've had enough of the demeaning interviews and the sarcastic barbs. I've had enough of the insinuations that we aren't capable of doing a good job."

"You pride yourself on not doing a good job," one of the green shirts said. A number of people laughed.

"No, I pride myself on not working hard. I take it personally when somebody tells me I can't do a good job. There's a difference."

Morgan looked around the room. "I'm tired of the insults, but today they crossed a line. The maroon shirts can take our pride. They can take our boss. Were we to ever date them, they would likely take our money and our self-esteem. But when they take our donuts, they go too far." He pounded a fist in his palm for emphasis.

"It's time we strike back. What's the only way to do that?" He looked around expectantly.

Nobody responded.

He shrugged, as if it were obvious. "Pass the exam tomorrow." He pointed over to the study binders, the majority of them unused and neatly stacked on a folding table.

Lester laughed. "Pass the exam tomorrow? Pass the exam tomorrow?! Are you insane?!"

"Yeah, there's no way Lester can pass that test," Anna chimed in.

He turned to look at her. "I was talking about us as a group. I could easily pass that test."

"Please, you can barely pass gas." She looked at Jeff, still shaken over the donut incident. "And all you can do is pass out."

"I passed a stone yesterday," Jeff responded dully.

She gave him a disturbed look.

"I keep it in a little jar. Now I know what childbirth must feel like."

The disgusted Buy More employees in Jeff's vicinity gave a unified shudder.

One of the greens shirts said, "Morgan, it's just donuts. It's not worth busting our humps over." There was a general murmur of agreement.

Morgan shook his head. "Well, I disagree, but you're entitled to your own opinion."

Many in the audience turned, intending to leave.

Morgan said, "But before you walk out that door, let me ask you something: do you really want to lose Big Mike?"

Another green shirt laughed. "What did Big Mike ever do for us?"

"Big Mike isn't an ideal manager, but what he lacks in leadership skills, he makes up for in indifference. Seriously, have you thought about what this place would be like with a new manager? Jeff: what other manager would tolerate your little liquid indiscretions?"

Understanding dawned on Jeff's face. "There'd be no more Tipsy Tuesdays," he gasped. "No more Wasted Wednesdays! No more Thirsty Thursdays! No more–"

"Jeff, we get it. Really."

A look of resolution came to Jeff's face. "We can't lose Big Mike!" He took a study guide and headed out the door, reading as he went.

Morgan was heartened by the minor victory. "Lester: Big Mike liked what your claimed religious affiliation did for the store's diversity statistics, so he let it slide. Do you really think that a new manager would still grant you the two extra holidays that Buy More is required to give its Jewish employees?"

Lester said, "What is with you people? I am insulted that you think my devotion to my religion is nothing more than a cynical–" He stopped as Anna whispered something into his ear. His face lit up. "You're on," he muttered to her. "Let's do it for Big Mike!" he exclaimed to the crowd. He grabbed a study book and left the room.

The remaining employees looked unconvinced. Morgan said, "Having been here for nine years now, I can tell you that things could be much, much worse. If we get a new manager, that means a new assistant manager. That means two people to look over our shoulder and make certain that we put in a full eight hours of hard work every shift. Or, we can keep the man who, when you ask for something, will look you straight in the eye and say, 'Does it directly impact me? No? Then why should I care?'" He shook his head. "You don't find that kind of leadership just anywhere."

He looked around. "If you won't do it for the donuts, do it for the man too lazy to leave his office for ninety-five percent of his work day. That, my friends, is a man I am happy to call my manager."

A couple other green shirts apparently agreed. They walked over, took their binders, and left.

The trickle became a flood, and binders began disappearing from the table. Soon, Morgan and Anna were the only two left in the break room.

There was only a single binder on the table. Anna walked over and took it. "Morgan," she said in a suggestive voice, "let's go somewhere quiet and I'll, um, help you study. And maybe you can give that speech again?"

Morgan's face glowed. "It's good to lead," he said to himself.

* * *

Back in the cage, Chuck pulled out a special cord issued by the manufacturers of the PDA. He plugged one end of the cord into the USB port of the diagnostic computer in the cage and the other into the PDA.

Software supplied by the manufacturer automatically popped up onto the screen, detected the device and brought up a menu of options. Chuck clicked the 'Reveal Password' option. The computer worked for a moment before popping up 'LIMELIGHT'.

"Huh," Chuck laughed to himself as he realized that Veron's nickname was the basis for the password. "That would have been one of the first passwords that I tried."

Rather than scroll through the PDA by hand, Chuck used the software so he could examine the contents on the monitor. He started with the calendar, which defaulted to the current day.

The first item of the day was a reminder to "Call the twins." That seemed to confirm Carina's suspicion that Veron was part of the Los Mellizos cartel, which was run by twin brothers. Either that or it was one fantastic coincidence.

There was a tanning appointment in the early morning, followed by an appointment that simply read "nails". Manicure, pedicure, or both, Chuck really didn't care to think about it.

After that appointment, Veron's calendar was open until a 4:00 appointment simply titled "Drop-off". Intrigued, Chuck clicked to open the details. It read:

**GP Observ**

**$1.5M + 750k + 750k**

**"Ducks float poorly on stormy seas."**

**"But water rolls off a duck's back."**

**Amafor**

The last line was a link to a contact. Curious, Chuck clicked. Inside was only a first and last name, Eric Amafor, but it was enough. Chuck's eyelids fluttered and grew heavy.

_An image of an old-style television; the screen showed Julia Child cooking in Technicolor._

_A top secret NSA brief listing names and aliases for suspected moles within U.S. intelligence. The name Eric Amafor was highlighted on the page. Unlike many of the other names, there was no corresponding agent identity listed._

_A series of documents detailing involvement of agent Eric Amafor in illicit activities:_

_Blackmailing of a political party head in Mumbai (suspected)._

_Meeting with military figures in Pakistan (verified)._

_Aiding in a military coup in Mauritania (suspected)._

_Weapons trafficking in Burma (verified)._

_Masterminding an assassination in Belarus (verified). _

_Recruitment of NSA agents for Fulcrum (suspected)._

_Miscellaneous domestic dealings with information and weapons brokers (suspected)._

_The image of Julia Child in bright colors on a television._

Shaking out of the trance, understanding dawned on Chuck. As he put the pieces together in his head, he became uncharacteristically angry.

He stood up. His actions carried a bit of extra vigor as he disconnected the PDA from the computer and shoved it in his pocket. He shut down the software on the diagnostic computer after clearing all trace of his actions and headed for the door.

He was intercepted by the brunette maroon shirt. She wore a determined look on her face as she forcibly stopped him from leaving by sticking her blood-red fingertips against his chest.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck stared at the woman. She seemed somehow menacing as she stared him.

"We want what you have," she said.

The PDA felt heavy in his pocket. Nervously, Chuck babbled, "A snappy sense of style? Because, you know, it's not really something that can be taught. It just kind of evolved over time."

"No, Mr. Bartowski. I was thinking more in the vein of information."

"I don't suppose you're referring to an encyclopedic knowledge of all generations of the Starship Enterprise?"

She shook her head. "Now, that kind of thing wouldn't be very useful to anyone, would it?"

"I dunno, in some circles–"

Her hand closed around his tie; she yanked his head down, forcing him to hunch over. "We are not fooling around."

"I'm getting that impression."

"We want information only you can provide."

Chuck broke out in a cold sweat. Had Fulcrum managed to plant an agent in the Buy More ranks? "Like what?" he asked, expecting the worst.

She released the tie; gratefully, he stood up. She said, "We want to know how to take down Mr. Turner."

"What, you want to take down Big Mike?" His face loosened. Of course; it was stupid to expect that every person in his life would turn out to be a spy of some kind.

She swirled around Chuck the way her coven had swirled around Big Mike the previous day. "This store used to be one of Buy More's best performers. Since he's taken over, profits are down, customer dissatisfaction is up, and the quality of employees has gone through the floor." She smiled flirtingly. "Present company excluded, of course."

Chuck laughed awkwardly, but the smile quickly vanished as she stopped circling to his left. She put a hand on his shoulder and rose to her toes to whisper in his ear, "Help us out, and we can help you out."

Her hot breath tickled his ear lobe; he fought to keep his voice from cracking, with only moderate success. "What … what would you need?"

"The audit consists of three parts: assessment of the sales team, assessment of the Nerd Herd, and a review of the store management and performance. Fail one of the three, and store gets probation. Fail two of the three, and we have grounds for removal of the manager."

Chuck couldn't hide his surprise. "You really think we'll pass two of those three?

She dropped back to her feet; she put her hands behind her back as she started pacing again. "I've talked to the members of your Nerd Herd; I think they'll pass, if barely. There's no way the green shirts will pass their exam; they're just terrible. That leaves the last assessment."

"I thought you said sales were down."

"They are – except for your unauthorized Black Valentine's Day sale. Right now, store revenues for the year are just above the minimum threshold. That means that the only way we get to remove Mr. Turner is to fail him on the management portion, and we need details to make that happen."

Chuck was torn. He didn't personally have anything against Big Mike, but at the same time, the man pretty much hid out in his office and did nothing to improve the store's performance. He had made his own bed.

Still, while Chuck knew enough to cause Big Mike to fail the audit, he had bigger fish to fry; he certainly didn't like the quid pro quo nature of the request. "I'm sorry; I don't think I can help you. But ask around; maybe somebody else knows something."

She stopped pacing behind him; her front was suddenly pressed against his back, and her hand returned to his hip. "Maybe you don't understand what I'm saying. I want Mike Turner gone," she said heatedly. "In exchange, we'll make sure you get the manager's position. You're certainly qualified. You're certainly respected by the employees here. You couldn't do any worse."

"Gosh, thanks."

And," she continued, her arm circling very familiarly around his waist from behind, "if things go well, maybe I can find a way to sweeten the deal."

"I'm sorry?"

Her hot breath was back on his ear. "Surely I could figure out … something … that you would like?"

Chuck boggled, especially as the hand on his stomach slowly started descending … and descending...

With a sharp cry, Chuck spun out of her grasp.

"What do you say?" she asked with a knowing smile.

He cleared his throat. "I'll, uh, I'll think about it," he said, trying hard to smile and not look nervous. He suspected he probably didn't do well on either front. He took a hesitant step backwards. "I'll get back to you. Um, in the meanwhile, you really might consider asking around the other employees. Maybe they can help you."

She eyed him up-and-down. "Not the way you could." She bit the tip of her thumb as her eyes bored into him.

Chuck fled into the main part of the store.

* * *

_Ed. Note - I'm going to break one of my own unwritten rules here and talk about what I'm not sure I like about my own writing, in hopes that it helps with feedback._

_In this chapter, I tried to work on making the dialogue more closely resemble the dialogue that we often see on the show. I think this takes me out of my usual style, but I'm not sure if that's a good thing, a bad thing, or somewhere in between.  
_

_I view it as part of my growth as a writer to try new things, and hopefully they'll turn out OK. I'm honestly not certain how this turned out, so I would appreciate any feedback that you feel is appropriate._

_Thanks._


	19. Strained Relationships

_Ed. Note - I apologize for the delay; I don't like going so long between updates. Updates should start appearing again on a more regular schedule._

_Thanks to Go-Chuck-Go for the advice…_

* * *

**Scene ****X****L – Casa Bartowski, Chuck's Room**

Sarah glanced at the door. The muffled buzz of people talking and laughing intruded into the sanctuary, but in truth, she was glad for the sound. It turned out silence could be just as uncomfortable as conversation.

The indomitable agent had ensconced herself in the middle of Chuck's bed for the better part of an hour. Her arms wrapped around her shins, keeping her legs pulled tightly to her chest. As a result, her back arched forward far enough that her chin could, and often did, comfortably rest on top of one knee or the other as her eyes focused on nothing in particular.

She had curled into the cocoon as much to fend against her negative thoughts as the cool air of the room. She wasn't having much luck keeping either at bay.

The conversation with Ellie had thrown Sarah. She berated herself for forgetting how closely Ellie watched after her brother, and by extension, how closely she watched the two of them as a couple. Of course Ellie would notice if the seams of the 'relationship' didn't seem to line up. Lacking context, Ellie hadn't been able to put the pieces together, but she seemed to know exactly what the couple was going through – maybe better than Sarah knew herself.

It was disturbing just how clearly Ellie saw things. She was right: there was something coming between Sarah and Chuck. It would eventually lead to the two of them splitting up. Sarah was just fighting to delay the inevitable.

Everywhere Sarah went, there were reminders that any relationship with Chuck was ultimately doomed. Ellie pointed out the things that weren't working. Casey pointed out the things that were – which was an entirely different sort of problem. And she didn't want to think about the set-up in the basement of the CIA facility. If Chuck hadn't gone to Veron's estate, he might be locked away – or, worse, in Fulcrum's hands.

As for Chuck, well, Chuck simply cruised along without any of the forethought necessary to make things work. It was as if he somehow expected things to magically fall into place, as if their feelings for each other were somehow enough. That just didn't happen in her world.

All of this should have been obvious to the veteran agent, yet here she was, surprised by how complicated it all was.

She felt like a hypocrite for what she had said to Chuck. Ellie's observations had taken her by surprise, so why wouldn't Chuck be taken by surprise by some things?

Sarah leaned back slightly so her hands could rub the cold skin of her bare arms. She cursed herself again both for choosing the red tank and for misplacing Chuck's sweatshirt; it was freezing in his room. Even her necklace sent shivers down her spine when the cold metal chain shifted across the nape of her neck.

Without really thinking about it, she headed to the closet and pulled out a black mission jacket she kept stashed there. Various tools and weapons were stowed in cleverly designed pockets of the deceptively casual coat, but at the moment all she could think about was the warmth it would provide.

She gratefully slipped into the familiar protection of the garment, zipped it up to her neck and crossed her arms. The jacket seemed to help her regain her identity and her sense of purpose. She was suddenly irritated with her recent inaction.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "You're a CIA agent. Start acting like it."

She started pacing by the foot of the bed, crossing the width of the room in six slow steps. She spun around with a fluid movement and began the trek back.

"You promised yourself that you'd find a way to make all of this work. It wasn't supposed to all just fall into place."

The speed of her pacing increased as her resolve strengthened. The next trip across the room took only five steps, as did the next, and the one after that.

She reminded herself of the core to being a good agent. "If there's a problem, you figure out how to solve it. No excuses."

Her little pep talk worked. She was tired of hiding. It was time to fix some things.

Sarah left Chuck's room, shutting the door behind her. She had a mission in mind, and to accomplish it, she needed to be Sarah Walker, outgoing girlfriend of Chuck Bartowski. She took a deep breath and painted a smile on her face before striding down the hallway to face the crowd.

The living area of the apartment was full of people enjoying a light brunch preceding the start of day two of the scavenger hunt. Most were far better dressed for the occasion than Sarah had been: turtlenecks, sweatshirts and jackets were common choices.

Her practiced eye counted twelve people populating the room. That made sense: the last-place team wouldn't leave for nearly two hours, so some people would choose to show up closer to their departure slot.

Sarah found herself strangely relieved to see Ellie a safe distance away in the kitchen. She pushed that odd thought aside and tried to blend in.

It felt weird wandering the room without Chuck by her side. The conversations were all so foreign to her. She wasn't used to socializing for the sake of socializing. In her world, every conversation had a purpose. Here, she didn't have much of an idea of how to begin talking to anybody. After a few minutes, that became a moot point.

"Sarah!"

She stiffened. Ellie was making her way across the crowded room towards her. Even though Chuck's sister was the target of her mission, she still dreaded this moment. She adjusted her jacket around her, as if it would somehow help protect her.

_A CIA agent shouldn't have any trouble with Ellie Bartowski_, she reminded herself.

"Hey," Ellie said as she came up to the blond. "How are you?" Her expression radiated concern.

"I'm fine," Sarah said with a friendly, confident air.

Ellie's face screwed up into a slightly pained smile. "Look, I wanted to apologize for over-stepping my bounds. I guess I've looked after Chuck for so long that I don't know how to stop myself some times. It's just that I like you so much and you're so good for him…" She pushed her hands towards the floor and closed her eyes, obviously working hard to stop herself from babbling. "I'm sorry. I promise to try not to stick my nose where it doesn't belong."

The comments were sincere and heartfelt without the slightest hint of guile. Sarah was touched to the core – and a bit baffled as to how to respond. Give her a diplomat with a secret or a mark who desperately wanted to get into her pants, and Sarah Walker knew what to say. Give her honesty, and she was confounded.

Ellie patiently waited for a response. Sarah reminded herself, _Stick to the objective: you have to convince Ellie that nothing is wrong._

"Thanks, Ellie. I appreciate that." She paused as she chose her words carefully. "I just want you to know that everything is going fine between your brother and me."

The brunette raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"No, really. We're in a good place."

Ellie looked at Sarah like she was from another planet. "There's something coming between you two. I see it."

"Maybe once or twice, but all couples have those moments."

"No, Sarah, I see it all the time. You disappeared last night, you didn't know where Chuck was this morning … you two nearly broke up on Valentine's Day, for crying out loud. That's just the past few days."

Ellie made fair points. This wasn't going as smoothly as Sarah had envisioned. "Last night wasn't anything to worry about; I just decided to crash at home. And Valentine's Day was just a misunderstanding." She winced inside as soon as the words escaped her lips.

"Just a misunderstanding?! Chuck packed up your things, for crying out loud. He was ready to say goodbye. And he was so hurt…" Ellie bit her lip to cut herself off from saying any more.

"Every relationship has its rough patches. I know you and Devon fight from time-to-time, and look how well you guys are doing."

"C'mon, I'm not blind. There's a difference between occasional fights and some of the things you guys are going through. There isn't anything wrong with–"

"Maybe you're reading Chuck wrong. I can see how you might–"

"It's not just Chuck, Sarah, I see it in you, too. I'm just trying to warn you. A relationship is something–"

Sarah's eyes darted to one side. "There's nothing coming between us, Ellie. I don't know what you're talking about. Everything is going great between Chuck and me."

She realized her mistake when her eyes returned to Ellie's face. The woman's expression was all disappointment; it was as if she was seeing Sarah in a new light.

The other conversation in the room rushed to fill the void left by the long, uncomfortable silence between the two women. Sarah's mouth opened a time or two, hoping to somehow push out words that would make things right. Instead, only impotent little noises escaped her throat. She had pushed too hard, and she knew it.

A hint of steel mingled with the disappointment in Ellie's eyes. She said, "Sarah, you can tell me anything you want. You can tell me what's going on with Chuck. You can tell me to butt out and that it's none of my business. But don't lie to me and try to tell me that everything is perfect. You and I both know it isn't."

Sarah stared dumbly at Ellie. The woman's expression was etched in steel, unmovable and unflappable as she stared down the CIA agent. Her eyes bored into Sarah. Sarah could barely keep from looking away; she felt a flush come to her face.

In an utterly flat tone, Ellie added, "And at the moment, things aren't so hot between you and me, either."

She turned and walked away.

Sarah could only watch as the other woman headed for the kitchen. She had made a colossal blunder by trying to shove what she wanted Ellie to believe down her throat.

"Nice going, CIA," she muttered to herself, mimicking Casey's tone. "Real slick."

Across the room, Ellie joined Devon was in the kitchen. He gave one of his trademark smiles; her return smile was clearly forced. Sensing that something was wrong, he turned and put his arms around his fiancé. As she wrapped her arms around him, she stared back across the room at Sarah with a cool, tight-lipped expression.

Sarah was surprised just how much that stung.

The heat of the blood in her blushing skin suddenly made her very conscious of her snug jacket; Sarah turned away from the kitchen and ripped the zipper downward with a frustrated jerk. She almost gasped with relief as the bottom of the zipper unclasped, allowing the sides of the jacket to part.

Chuck had always said that he didn't understand how to act Sarah's world. It appeared the reverse was true as well.

* * *

Sarah refused to retreat to Chuck's room again. Her pride wouldn't allow her to be banished for a second time in as many hours.

Instead, she wandered the room. At times, she viewed it as an academic exercise to learn how to function in the strange environment. At other times, she viewed it as a self-inflicted punishment for her clumsy conversation with Ellie.

She lingered on the periphery of conversations, laughing at jokes, nodding understandingly, but generally not participating. As time passed, she found herself at least able to pitch in a comment or two, and even cracked a joke that brought a round of laughter from three other people.

She was just starting to relax and enjoy herself a little when Griff addressed the crowd from in front of the kitchen counter. "OK, guys, welcome to day two!"

The crowd took their cue and let out a boisterous cheer. Sarah's smile grew despite her dark mood. She wished Chuck were there; she felt like such an outsider without him around.

Griff continued, "You'll get today's clue sheets at the times determined by yesterday's performance. There are eleven more clues to lead to the last eleven letters. Unscramble the letters to spell out the location of the trophy and be the first there to win.

"Remember, drive safe and have fun. We'll see you all at the post-game tailgate near the trophy's hiding spot."

The crowd broke into a round of applause, with a couple of spontaneous hoots and hollers punctuating the noise.

"Leaving first at eleven o'clock will be our leaders: Devon Woodcomb and Ellie Bartowski!"

The crowd mostly applauded, although a few more catcalls were interspersed with the cheers as the couple donned cocky grins.

"On deck and leaving at eleven-ten: Lester Patel and Jeff Barnes!"

Morgan and Lester raised their hands in acknowledgment; they lapped up the attention.

Sarah's eyes narrowed. After yesterday's incident where she caught the two of them tailing her and Chuck, Sarah smelled a rat.

Tuning out Griff's announcement of the remainder of the standings, she walked over to the pair. With the room's attention diverted, they were leaning up against a back wall and had returned to studying their Buy More binders. She folded her arms and eyed them carefully. "Wow; second-place. Nice job, guys."

Lester looked up. When he saw it was Sarah, he straightened. "Oh, hey, Sarah. Good to see you. Saw that you and Chuck managed seventh place." He and Jeff snickered.

"I have to say, second place is pretty impressive. What's your secret?"

Lester adopted a slick, arrogant tone. "There's no real secret. Just God-given talent, wouldn't you say, Jeff?"

Jeff said, "It's survival of the fittest out there. Kill or be killed."

"Some people are naturally lions, while some are lambs. There's no shame in being a lamb, Sarah. None at all."

Sarah tried to estimate just how long Jeff and Lester would last in her real line of work. Her estimate wasn't in days or even hours; she used minutes. "You know, I would have bet that you two had something up your sleeves. Something you two thought up that nobody else did?"

Their faces betrayed something; the slightest hints of smirks crept into their expressions.

"OK, guys, what's going on?"

Devon's voice boomed across the apartment. "Babe, where are the truck keys?"

Lester's eyes widened. "The truck?!" he called out involuntarily, a little louder than he intended.

Devon looked across the room at him. "Yeah, we're hauling a bunch of gear for the grilling afterparty. Chuckster's got the 'Tide today." He turned away to take the keys from his smiling fiancé, giving her a quick kiss in the process.

Lester and Jeff looked at each other with something akin to horror.

Sarah figured it out. "So that explains how you finished second – after Ellie and Devon. You planted a tracking device on the car and figured out where they stopped to pick up the clues, didn't you."

Lester's eyes widened. "No, we didn't."

Jeff said, "And we could've gotten first place if you and Boy Wonder had led us to a couple of the other letters first." Lester shot him an angry look.

"Give it to me," she held out her hand.

"What?! Never."

"Give it to me, or I tell Chuck and every other Buy More employee what went down the day you decided to hit on me at the Weinerlicious. In exhaustive, excruciating, nauseating detail."

Jeff stared at his friend. "You told me she was anti-Semitic!"

Nothing could really surprise Sarah about Lester any more. She gave him an even dirtier look and held out her hand more insistently.

"Fine," he muttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, square black device with a white cord inserted into the output port.

She shook her head in disgust and headed for Chuck's room.

"Hey, I'll need that back," he called after her.

She didn't slow down or even acknowledge the comment.

"We borrowed it from the Buy More!" he yelled louder.

Sarah ignored him; she went back to Chuck's room and shut the door behind her. Why did she always feel like she needed a shower after dealing with those two?

She barely had time to turn away from the door when her cell phone rang.

"Walker here."

"Casey here. Meet us at my apartment in five."

Sarah could barely hear the man over the whining protests of the Riptide engine and the road noise. "What's going on?" she said loudly.

"Dunno, you'll have to ask Chuck when we get there; he's got some kind of bug up his asset. Maybe you can charm it out of him." -click-

She shoved the GPS device into an inside pocket in her jacket. Apparently there were bigger fish to fry than people cheating in a scavenger hunt.

**Scene XLI – Casey's Apartment**

Sarah was waiting in Casey's apartment when Chuck stormed through the front door, Casey in tow. As the agent shut the front door, Chuck ordered, "Get Beckman and Graham on the line."

Sarah was clearly surprised by the intensity of the command. "Chuck, what…?"

"Do it," Chuck said confidently. A hint of his ire colored his visage.

She walked over to Chuck, keeping herself between him and Casey to create a bit of privacy. In a low voice, she said, "Look, I've found that it's usually a bad idea to talk to Beckman or Graham while I'm angry. Maybe you could wait a few minutes, calm down, and then we could make the call."

"I wouldn't describe myself as…" He took one look at her face, and saw she wasn't buying it. "Fine, I'm a little angry. Still, we need to have the conversation now. The clock's ticking."

Sarah's face was conflicted, partly worried and partly intrigued. She glanced back at Casey. The big man shrugged.

After a moment of thought, she answered, "OK, Chuck. I trust you. Just do me a favor and try to calm down while we get them online." She waited until he finally nodded his assent; she pulled her cell phone out and made a call.

Having promised Sarah he would try to calm down, Chuck let out a long, slow breath, trying to use the mind-clearing exercise he had learned from his one aikido lesson. It was less than effective.

The incident with the maroon shirt had momentarily derailed his frustration over the implications of his discovery. That emotion had quickly returned, so much so that he had grabbed Casey and tried to make the call from the Buy More home theater room, planning to conference Sarah in. However, the maroon shirts were using the theater room as their own personal interrogation chamber.

They were further delayed when, after sticking their heads into the room, the three women decided it was time to "interview" Casey about what he knew. It was probably the only time a Buy More employee left the interview room calmly while the three women emerged shaken

After the half-hour interrogation, Chuck flat-out demanded that they head back to the apartment. The NSA agent wasn't truly upset to have an excuse to leave the store, but he was irritated that Chuck wouldn't tell him what he had discovered.

Chuck was only going to have this conversation once. All concerned were going to be present for it. It was the only way it would work.

Sarah said, "OK, Chuck, they're ready." She activated the screen.

The director and the general made for an odd, irritated couple. "This had better be important," Graham glowered, "Who called this meeting?"

"I did," Chuck said firmly.

"Since when do you call meetings, Mr. Bartowski?" the general asked.

"I thought it was time for all of us to talk for a few minutes about 'Los Mellizos'."

Both the figures on the monitor straightened up. "You can't…" they said simultaneously; each cut himself off when he realized that the other was speaking. They shared a guilty look. Sarah and Casey shared a confused one.

Chuck nodded strongly. "That's right. The three of us have been working on the same case from different ends, and we're not allowed to talk about it. Enough is enough."

General Beckman said. "Mister Bartowski, you are in no position to be giving orders. Your role is to…"

"What? To be 'the Intersect'? To let you know when things, I don't know, INTERSECT?" Chuck widened his eyes deliberately.

The CIA director was far calmer than the suddenly silent but seething general. "Did you flash, Mr. Bartowski?"

"It turns out our friend Jaime Veron had a PDA, which we acquired at his estate yesterday." He waved the device for the benefit of Graham and Beckman.

"Is that where that ended up?" General Beckman said incredulously. "The DEA's been all over the place trying to track that down. They are ticked off, and frankly, I don't blame them. What possibly–"

"This particular device is capable of downloading and encoding the entire Intersect library of images."

There was silence for a moment while the implications sank in.

"And you're sure of this?" the general asked.

"I am."

Casey interjected, "General, it does appear similar to the PDA we found lying next to Bryce Larkin the night he sent the Intersect to Chuck."

The director frowned. "If that's the case, you were right to grab the device. The question becomes: how did Veron come into possession of a Fulcrum device?"

"I'm getting to that. I broke into the device today and confirmed that Veron works for the Los Mellizos cartel."

Understanding slowly dawned on the faces of Graham and Walker.

"The NSA and DEA are aware of that," the general sniffed, not noticing the reactions of the CIA contingent. "It's likely just a coincidence."

"Is it also a coincidence that Veron has appointments in his PDA to meet a Fulcrum agent and deliver a seven-figure sum of cash?"

The silence had returned. All eyes were riveted on Chuck.

To the general, Chuck said, "We know that Veron works for Los Mellizos. We know that we can't account for all of his drug money."

Chuck turned to the director. "Is it possible that the Los Mellizos henchmen that attacked Agent Walker were up here because of her last mission? Is it possible that they used their Fulcrum connections to find her? And, if so, is it possible that some members of our team know something useful about the delivery of cash to Fulcrum?"

Graham's face now mirrored the realization on Sarah's face. Beckman saw the same expression on the director's face; she quickly understood the situation.

"Well," she said in what for her passed as a pleasant tone, "why don't we open the files and figure out what is going on here?"

* * *

Twenty minutes later, the group finally understood the full cycle. Fulcrum would pass money to Los Mellizos. That money was to be used both to fund Fulcrum-sponsored operations in Venezuela and to replace the money that the drug cartel, via Veron and one other operator, would pass along to American Fulcrum cells.

Los Mellizos got their drug money laundered for them without the risk of transporting it back to Colombia. Fulcrum got a virtually untraceable supply of cash for its domestic cells.

And later that afternoon, Veron was scheduled to deliver money to a Fulcrum cell out at Griffith Park Observatory. Depending upon how Veron handled the dropoffs, the cell members might be unaware that the drop-off was compromised.

"Mr. Bartowski," the general said pleasantly, "would you mind stepping out for a moment? The four of us need to discuss a few things."

"Sure, why not. It's not like we–"

"Chuck," Sarah interrupted him. She shook her head.

"Fine. I'll just go wait in the car or something." Obviously upset, he turned to leave.

The general asked, "Is there some kind of problem, Mr. Bartowski?"

Chuck pivoted back to the monitor. "Yes, General, there is. The CIA knew that Los Mellizos was funneling money to Fulcrum, while the NSA knew that Veron worked for Los Mellizos and that they couldn't account for all of Veron's money. It was a simple link, but we wouldn't have had a clue about what was going on unless I happened to be at the Veron estate when the PDA was delivered, I happened to flash on the PDA, and I happened to break into it to see if there was anything useful.

"Yes, I have a problem. The problem is that you don't trust me. You don't trust me, you don't trust Agent Walker, and you don't trust Agent Casey. The most basic of briefings would have given us what we needed without the need for dumb luck to bail us out."

Beckman frowned. "Knowing that wouldn't have gotten us the PDA with the appointments. Like you said, if you hadn't been at the estate, we wouldn't have that intel."

"Don't you think we wouldn't have looked a little more carefully through Veron's stuff if we had the connection? Would we have just left everything to the DEA if we knew it was more than just a drug bust?" He took a deep breath. "Would we have investigated Drew Jennings a little more thoroughly to see if he's involved?"

"You go too far."

"Really. You don't trust us with basic intel, but when I suggest that the politician who appears to have been in bed with Veron for a while should get checked out, I'm the one who's crossed the line?"

The tense stand-off between Beckman and Chuck held the attention of all in the room, so nobody noticed the blood leave Casey's face or his nervous swallow. A moment later, he stood rigidly at attention, all emotion banished from his demeanor once more.

The director leaned over and whispered something to the general. With an obvious show of will, she calmed down and adopted a lecturing tone. "We can't always share everything with our agents. First, there just isn't enough time for all the briefings. More importantly, we know that we have Fulcrum agents among us. We simply cannot afford for them to find out what we know, so we need to be careful."

"So, wait, the people you are sending after Fulcrum can't know what we know about Fulcrum?"

She sighed, frustrated. "Chuck, why do you lock your car?"

"What?"

"You lock your car when you park it. Why?"

Chuck was baffled. "So it doesn't get stolen," he said uncertainly.

"Right. But you don't lock the car because you suspect a specific stranger walking down the sidewalk is going to take it. You just know that somewhere out there are people who will take it."

"Unless the car in question is a Skoda Riptide," Casey muttered under his breath, although his voice lacked its usual bite.

Chuck said, "The difference is that you keep the car locked away in a garage and never drive it anywhere. You keep information locked away when it needs to be used. Agents Casey and Walker are extraordinarily dedicated individuals who need information to be good at their jobs, and you ration out information with an eye dropper when they should be drinking from a fire hose. They should have so much information that it should be spilling out of their ears."

"The problem is–"

"–the problem is that you don't trust your own people. You don't see your people as assets; you see them as potential liabilities."

The general wasn't so much upset as confused at how to respond. What Chuck was saying didn't make any sense to her.

The director stepped in. "Certain pieces of information would do great damage if they got into the wrong hands. Don't you think it makes sense to be conservative in determining who needs to know things?"

"'Conservative' is just another way of saying 'scared'."

"It is a scary world, Mr. Bartowski, full of scary people."

"It seems to me you don't fight scary people by being scared." He shrugged. "You can't possibly win that way."

Nobody seemed to know what to say to that.

Sensing that, Chuck walked across the apartment out the front door. His last words hung in the air long after the door shut behind him.


	20. A Mission Gone Bad

**Scene XLII – Casey's Apartment**

Nobody spoke for right away. It was only a few seconds, but each second felt like it lasted a minute or more.

It was truly remarkable to watch three people who were never at a loss for words struggle to find their voices again.

Sarah wasn't sure what stunned the group more: Chuck's assertiveness or his insight. Still, it would be a cold day in July before the likes of Beckman and Graham willingly took any kind of advice from an outsider like Chuck, no matter how good his points may be.

Beckman finally set aside her bewilderment and collected herself. Reshuffling some papers on her desk to cover her discomfiture, she asked, "Are you two sure that you have the Intersect under control? He seems a bit … agitated."

The general's choice of words was irrelevant; her tone made it clear that she didn't appreciate being lectured. Sarah hoped she could find a way to defuse the situation. "Can you blame him, General? The inner workings of the intelligence community are sometimes a bit convoluted."

"To say the least," Casey grumbled.

"You have something to add, Agent Casey?"

The big man straightened to attention. "No, ma'am."

Sarah shot him a cross look. _Casey never hesitates to speak his mind to me; why can't he throw a little attitude the general's way when it's important?_ Irritated, Sarah said, "It's difficult to understand that members of your own team can't know everything that is going on. Some times it hurts the very mission you're working on."

"There's a larger picture, Agent Walker."

"I know that, General. The people on this call all know that. Chuck doesn't. He sees things differently because he hasn't come up through the ranks and seen how it all works. He's frustrated; that's all. It frustrates all of us at times. He just wants us to succeed, like everyone here."

"Maybe so," the director said, "Still, in the future we would appreciate it if you wouldn't tell the Intersect anything about your outside missions without prior approval. There's a chain of command and a protocol that needs to be followed."

"Understood, sir."

"Also, there's the matter of involving the asset in the triggering of the Mousetrap. Next time, please keep the asset away from anything not directly tied to his missions."

"Sir? The asset wasn't involved."

"Really? Then why do the mission reports from the various agents have such excruciating detail on Bartowski's involvement?"

A bit of emotion crept into Sarah's voice. "It was a complete coincidence that Chuck ended up on the same street where the Mousetrap was located. He saw me go into the store and how no idea what was happening. It couldn't be helped, and if he reacted–"

"It's a fairly large coincidence to have him end up there at all, wouldn't you say? After all, the mission had absolutely nothing to do with him."

Her chest tightened. The director had already told her that he suspected that she was compromised. This was just more of the same.

Luckily for her, this particular accusation was off-base. She planned to use that to her advantage.

Her eyes flashed ominously, and with an insulted tone, she responded, "With all due respect, Director, if you have something to say to me, say it."

She had no idea whether Graham would call her out in front of three other people, two from another agency. She was about to find out.

Or so she thought.

"Director?" Casey interrupted, pre-empting the director's response.

"What?!" the director growled.

"In the interest of time, I'd like to point out that the rendezvous between Agent Walker and the Intersect was set up at the Fulcrum warehouse earlier yesterday, which, I'm guessing, pre-dates the decision to activate the Mousetrap. I can confirm the pre-arranged destination. I would also suggest that you might check with the analyst team that solved the scavenger hunt puzzles to protect the Bartowski / Walker cover. They'll verify the reason for the rendezvous on that particular block."

The director turned this over in his head and apparently decided that he was satisfied. "Fair enough. But let's see if we can keep the asset away from any unnecessary danger going forward, shall we? We're supposed to be protecting him, not dragging him near gunfights and explosions."

Walker simply nodded. Anything she said would only reignite the fire. Right now, she was perfectly happy just to escape the flames unscathed – especially since Casey had stepped up to her defense. That left another bullet in the chamber if she needed to fight off the director's suspicions when he happened to be correct.

Mentally, she took back her thought about Casey not throwing a little attitude at his superiors. She owed him one.

The general had clearly tired of the sideshow. "Let's talk about the Fulcrum handoff. The next one is today?"

Casey said, "If Chuck is right, it will be at 4 pm at Griffith Park Observatory."

"Is there any reason to think Chuck isn't right, Agent Casey?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good. Work with the analysts to gather all the intel you can on the observatory grounds and put together a plan for meeting the Fulcrum contact. I expect to be briefed in half an hour." The general signed off.

* * *

After huddling for a bit, Casey and Sarah requested the pertinent information about the observatory from the local CIA team of analysts. The lead analyst was a bit disappointed that Sarah wasn't calling with today's list of scavenger hunt clues; amused, she had assured him that it would be sent soon because of the afternoon's mission.

That thought seemed to cheer him up, but it only saddened her. _Another opportunity missed_, she thought ruefully. Given Graham's suspicions and his plan to lock Chuck away, she didn't know how many opportunities like that Chuck, or she, would have. Her mood darkened further. She tried to push such thoughts from her head.

While the analysts did their research, Sarah and Casey gathered what information they could from the Internet. They set print-outs on a long work table, standing side-by-side as they started pouring over what little they could find. Within minutes, Sarah realized that they would need to wait for the analysts to complete the briefing book to put together a workable plan.

Her mind started to wander. She turned to look at her partner. "Casey?" she called.

"Mmmm?" The pen clenched in his teeth muffled his voice as he turned a page over.

"Thank you."

Casey said, "It was nothing." His demeanor while making the comment certainly backed up his words; he clearly thought little of his comment to Graham.

"It wasn't 'nothing'. It meant a lot to me." She frowned as she composed her next thought. "I would like to know why you did it."

"You're my partner." He shrugged, as if that explained everything.

She gave him a long glance. He either didn't notice it or didn't acknowledge it. Sensing that he preferred not to talk any more, she went back to sorting papers.

"And," he added, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "I know a little something about being judged without any good reason for it." He stuck the pen back between his teeth, as if it were a gag to keep him from saying any more.

Sarah immediately knew what he was talking about, although she was shocked that he would even reference it. He was talking about the event that had earned him the label of burnout within the intelligence community, the one that had threatened his career.

She looked at him speculatively. "What happened in Belarus, Casey?"

The pen dropped out of his mouth. His eyes fixed a glare of disbelief on her before the pen could hit the table with the dull, synthetic clatter that only cheap plastic could make.

She licked her lips. "Look, Casey, I know fraternization isn't high on your list of favorite things…"

"It isn't on my list of favorite things at all."

"I was just curious because…" She stopped. The right words were hard to find.

His eyes narrowed. "Because you're afraid the NSA contingent of your team will turn psycho on you?"

"No, that's not it at all." She didn't know the right way to ask what she wanted to ask. Hell, with Casey, there might not be a right way. "Just, the job started getting to me last night and I thought you might … you know what, forget I asked."

Casey seemed glad to do just that. He turned back to the papers in front of him.

She tried to do the same, but she couldn't focus. She stared blankly at the front wall as thoughts whirled through her mind, of Chuck and the CIA and a life spent in service to everyone but herself. What was the point? There had to be a point to it all.

Unable to let it go, she said, "It seems like we give up so much, and some times I'm not sure that our sacrifices are worth it."

"We've been over this. Besides, it's called a 'sacrifice' because we are expected to give things up, not because we're living the high life."

She turned to him, an intent look of pleading on her face. "If I'm sacrificing my entire life, I want my sacrifice to be as worth as much as possible. From what I've heard, it seems like whatever happened in Belarus might have made you question your own sacrifices. You came back from that. I was just hoping that whatever you learned and helped you to recover from that could help me figure out some things."

"Look, if you want to talk about your feelings, Bartowski's a better bet. Why don't you go find him?"

Her voice despondent, she turned away and said, "There are some things Chuck wouldn't understand." Her shoulders slumped as she hid, mindlessly turning pages. Her head was hung low and her motions lacked purpose.

Casey glanced up from his own stack of print-outs, as if questioning whether he should hide in his own pages or answer her question.

His decision surprised her.

"About fifteen months ago," he began, "I was sent on an assignment to Minsk. The NSA had been chasing a man suspected of trafficking uranium from deactivated Soviet reactors and mission silos, and we got enough of a fix on him that I could be sent in to 'stop' his activities once and for all."

Thoughts of clearance and other formalities never entered Sarah's head. She was too stunned to do anything but stare and listen, utterly transfixed.

"Belarus being what it was, I ended up doing most the usual legwork myself. It took me a full three days just to locate the guy, and another four to get his routine down. By the end of the week, though, I had my plan together.

"So the guy leaves his place in the morning like he does every day, and I sneak up and slip into his apartment. He's got this posh pad; must have cost a small fortune in dirty money to buy all three apartments on the floor and join them together. I go to the hiding spot I picked out: a mostly unused coat closet by what used to be an entrance when the apartments were separate, and I settle in to wait."

Casey shifted stiffly, as if his body unconsciously recalled the discomfort from being stuck in the closet. "Like clockwork, the guy returns in the early evening with his wife and kids. Unlike the other days, though, he has a huge crowd of people with him: women, children, his whole goddamn extended family. It's an absolute nightmare. Still, I figure that there's a decent chance that most of them will leave at the end of the night, so I'll be able to finish my business then and get out of there.

"The family settles in for dinner. They brought in all this food from a local restaurant; they have meat, potatoes, dumplings, soup, the whole nine yards. It's absolutely killing me, listening to them laugh and eat and have a fantastic time while I'm stuck in that closet smelling their food. Still, I'm not about to go and off twenty-some people because my stomach's growling, so I grit my teeth and hold out."

Sarah smiled despite knowing things weren't going to end well. She could picture Casey scowling for hours as he was trapped in a closet; in her mind's eye, she irrationally pictured Casey grumbling louder than his stomach as he kept pushing aside a little-used overcoat.

He said, "When they're through stuffing their faces, the parents in the room take some time to put the kids to bed. After they're done, they return to the table to finish drinking their vodka and wine and whatever else.

"Then the guy I'm supposed to take out stands up to make a toast. He starts talking about his wonderful family, and how lucky he is to have them. My eyes roll to the back of my head, because it's pretty damn hypocritical for a guy who sells uranium on the black market to start gushing about how great his family is."

Casey grimaced and looked away. "At least, until he tells them all that this is going to be the last meal they're going to have together. He was watching his kids in the park a couple of weeks back and thought about the world he was helping build for them. He had done some things he couldn't live with, so he was turning himself over to the Belarusian government the next day. He was going to do what he could to make everything right – for his family, and for his kids."

Her face showed her shock.

"I hear gasps, and then a few muttered comments that indicate that at least some of the people in the room knew what the guy did for a living. None of them could believe he was turning himself in.

"Nobody knew what to say; the place is dead quiet. In fact, it's so quiet that I can hear another assassin extract himself from the other spare coat closet on the opposite side of the apartment."

"What?!" she exclaimed. "How did you hear that?"

"Guy had an intercom system running through the house; they must have flipped it on so they could hear if any of their kids cried. I guess everybody else was too distracted by the drama or they tuned it out because they thought it was the kids."

Sarah just shook her head.

"Now I've got a problem. My orders are to take out the uranium broker, but he just announced that he's turning state's evidence. Somebody else is making his move, and if he's making his move at that moment, he plans on taking out everyone in the other room – people who could be just as dirty as the guy at the head of the table, I have no idea. But if I pop out, I may end up needing to take out everyone to protect my involvement from ever coming to light."

"So what'd you do?" she asked.

Casey finally looked at her; he shrugged a resigned shrug, as if his shoulders were weighted down. "My orders were to make sure the guy was dead. The mystery guest was going to take care of that for me. So, I did nothing."

"But the broker was turning state's evidence!"

"I realize that," Casey said through clenched teeth. "My orders were clear, and I made a call. Do you mind?"

"Sorry. What happened?"

"The assassin did what assassins do. Turns out the guy worked for the Russian mafia – word had leaked that the broker was turning himself in, and the mafia tends to frown on that type of thing. I hear three sets of hisses burst from his silenced machine gun, the popping of exploding plates, a few weak screams, and the sound of bodies collapsing. Seventeen people were mowed down in about three seconds. The guy was good; there was barely enough time for any of them to make a sound."

"How did you get out of there?"

He looked away from Sarah, but he couldn't hide his guilty expression. "I got out of there when he went back to the kids' room."

"What?!"

He nodded. "Yep. He killed all the kids, too. Seems the mafia wanted to send a little message." His expression became pained as he recalled the scene.

Sarah shook her head in disbelief.

Casey licked his lips and made certain his eyes were safely away from hers before continuing. "Thing was, I snuck out to try to steal a peek at the guy. Figured Beckman would want to know who pulled the trigger. I found a hiding place and looked down the hall. One little girl, the broker's daughter it turns out, must have heard something that caused her to come out. She wore pink pajamas and had a little teddy bear tucked under her arm. Her eyes were wide as saucers as she saw the carnage, and she started to cry. And that son-of-a-bitch knelt down and told the little girl that her father was a bad man and had it coming – right before he finished her off."

Sarah gasped. "He shot her?"

"No," he said in a dull, deceptively emotionless voice. "He pulled out his knife." Casey's whole body tensed; his right hand balled into a frustrated fist that would have crushed anything resting in the palm.

Words spilled out of Casey like water over a dam. "I didn't do anything when he killed the seventeen people, I didn't do anything when he killed that little girl, and I didn't do anything when he went back to the kids' room."

It took all of Sarah's training just to keep her expression neutral; her voice and choice of words betrayed her feelings. "And you just left. That man just walked out of there after what he did."

"Not exactly. He had a small accident."

Sarah looked at him questioningly. Hopefully.

For some reason, he still had trouble looking her in the eye. He did manage a bit of a grin. "Seems the bastard tripped and broke both his arms. Then he got real clumsy and fell down several flights of stairs in succession. Ended up breaking his neck."

Part of Sarah approved. "Really, that doesn't seem so bad."

He looked at her. "I also took out the driver waiting downstairs."

"OK, that might have been a little excessive."

He chuckled derisively, without a trace of humor. "Well, then I certainly crossed the line when I used the guy's cell phone to track down and kill five other men."

"Casey! You didn't!"

He winced. "I found the phone in the car. About an hour after I left, a mafia man called it. The guy wanted to meet to verify that the job was done; apparently the assassin was supposed to bring the broker's ring as proof that he was dead. I grunted and muttered my way into a meeting. I told myself that I was going because I needed to find out exactly who was behind it, but I knew the real reason I was going.

"When I got there, the contact specifically asked about the children. I lost my temper, and there were suddenly five more dead bodies – in front of about two dozen witnesses. I barely got out of the country alive."

Sarah stared raptly, unable to take her eyes off of Casey.

"And that's not the worst part," he added.

"What could be worse?!"

"One of the men I killed turned out to be an MI6 mole. He'd spent two years earning the trust of the Mafia and worming his way up the ranks."

Sarah was stunned. "I had no idea. All I'd heard was that you took matters into your own hands and things went south."

"Well, that pretty much sums it up."

"Not even close. So what happened?"

"Beckman was less than pleased with my extracurricular activities. I spent the next four months getting poked and prodded by a white-jacketed cadre of NSA skull-crackers. Luckily, the food was pretty good."

"No, Casey, what happened in the apartment?"

"Oh. That." He paused for a long moment, long enough that Sarah wondered whether he had decided not to answer the question. Instead, he looked her dead in the eye and explained, "My mission was to kill a uranium broker. Then the uranium broker was switching sides. Then another guy came and took him out, along with everyone else in the room. And then the guy brutally kills a bunch of little kids to make a point. It was too much for me."

"It was a bad mission, Casey. Missions go bad all the time."

"Really. My mission was to take out one man. When all was said in done, there were thirty-four casualties. Thirty-four bodies where only one was supposed to die. Not only didn't I protect the broker willing to provide intelligence that would shut down a substantial black market for uranium, but I single-handedly destroyed an operation MI6 had spent years to engage, and, oh by the way, let a bunch of children get killed to boot. Thirty-four people died that day, and how much more damage was done because we lost that intel and that MI6 agent?"

"Casey, you can't beat yourself up–"

He waved a hand at her. "You can't say anything to me that a team of therapists hasn't said already."

They both were quiet for a long moment. Sarah stared at Casey as he collected himself, trying to come up with the right words. Casey found his words first.

"In the end, I guess what happened was that I found myself in the midst of people who were too innocent to be killed and too guilty not to be punished … except for the kids and the mafia men. I started killing the only people that I knew deserved it, because I felt like I failed in the apartment and wanted to somehow redeem my inaction there. But, you know, even when I did that I ended up taking out one of the good guys. That's how complicated things got. That's how complicated things get."

Sarah said, "What we do is sometimes so arbitrary, Casey. People don't wear white and black hats to tell us who the bad guys are. Labels don't fit. Who is judged right and wrong depends entirely on the perspective of the person doing the judging, and that can vary between any two people, even Graham and Beckman or you and me."

"Maybe so. In the end, though, what hurts is when you work your tail off, and you end up with a bunch of dead bodies and can't find a way to believe that the world is a better place because of it."

"You were just doing your job. You couldn't have done anything else."

He pointedly looked at her. "I know thirty-four people who feel differently."

The two shared a long silence. There wasn't much more that could be said.

She gave an ironic laugh. "You know, I was hoping for something a little more reassuring."

"You didn't ask for reassuring. You asked what I learned."

"So what did you learn?"

He thought about that for a moment. "That you have to put your faith in the notion that your superiors are going to point you in the right direction most of the time. Occasionally, there are going to be casualties, and some of those are going to be innocent. It's the cost of doing business."

"That's not exactly inspiration for getting out of bed in the morning."

He gave a short bark of a laugh. "You'll have to go somewhere else for inspiration. I'm fresh out."

Her eyes flitted around the room as she processed everything she'd heard. "I'd hoped this would help. But here I am, still wondering if the sacrifice is worthwhile."

Casey looked her dead in the eye. "What have you done recently? You disrupted a plot to destabilize the Venezuelan government. You foiled several Fulcrum operations and captured a dozen of their agents. You helped secure the defection of a top Chinese spy. You've apprehended information brokers, weapons dealers, counterfeiters, and terrorists, and, by the way, protected the Intersect and kept Chuck out of an underground bunker far longer than any of us thought possible. Do you really need to ask me if your sacrifice has been worthwhile?"

Something about the emphasis he put on the word 'your' tipped her off. "You did most of those as well. Do you believe your sacrifice has been worthwhile?"

It was disconcerting to see the normally unflappable NSA agent shaken by such a simple question. His face twisted, but it couldn't hide that there was something in his expression she didn't recognize, something she hadn't ever seen in the face of John Casey.

It was doubt.

"Casey, I–"

She was cut off by the sound of the printer firing up and kicking out page after page of intelligence on the observatory. They both instinctively looked at the printer, then the clock on the wall, then each other.

By sheer force of will, he managed to compose himself. All traces of their conversation left his visage. "Let's just go see about not having a bad mission today, OK?" He walked away to pick up the printouts.

Sarah didn't like leaving things like this, but John's tone left little room for debate.

The printer finished spitting out pages and powered down; she couldn't help thinking that the silence in the room must have matched the silence in the Minsk apartment as the smoke cleared from the muzzle of the assassin's silencer.

She couldn't help but wonder if there had really been thirty-five casualties that day.


	21. Is Now Soon Enough?

_This one was a tougher one to get finished. Big thanks to Arathorn for giving me the push I needed to get things closer to right._

* * *

**Scene XLIII – Casa Bartowski, Chuck's Room**

Chuck lay on his bed, eyes cast upward at nothing at particular. His hands clasped behind his head to form an unnecessary support; the pliant comfort of his favorite pillow supported the hands supporting his head. He could have been just as comfortable if he removed his hands; however, somehow interlacing his fingers gave him the impression that he was doing something, and he felt a need to be doing something.

He was frustrated.

What reason could Graham and Beckman have for keeping secrets from agents on the same team? Did they really think that there was any chance that Casey or Sarah would suddenly turn rogue?

Impossible.

9/11 apparently hadn't taught the government anything. Months before the attacks, the government had obtained the intel they needed to see the hijackings coming, but it was essentially locked away from anyone who could put the picture together. Yet here Beckman and Graham were, years later, making the exact same mistakes.

Chuck hated that Casey or Sarah could be hurt, captured or killed because, of all things, a lack of information. The intelligence community needed to share information more than ever, yet here the leaders were, rationing it out sparingly at best.

A telltale groan of a floorboard outside his door stole him from his musings. After a pause came a delicate tapping. He immediately knew it was Sarah.

Whenever somebody entered the hallway, the hardwood floor creaked like a squeaky hinge on an old screen door. After the Intersect entered his life, Chuck had always thought of it as the perfect early warning system: not even Casey could avoid setting off the alarm.

Somehow, though, Sarah always passed through the hallway without making a sound. She did it instinctively, almost unconsciously, so much so that Chuck had cried out in surprise one day when she pushed through his half-open door. Ever since, he noticed that she always made sure to step on a particularly noisy board just outside his room to warn of her approach.

"Come in," he said softly.

The door swung inwards. Sarah took only a step or into the room, just far enough that he could see her without straining to twist his neck.

She didn't want to intrude. She still hadn't figured out that she was never intruding.

With an apologetic look, she held up the clue sheet for the day's scavenger hunt. "Our departure time was five minutes ago."

The last remnants of his dark mood evaporated in the light of her smile. He swung his feet around as he pulled himself into a seated position. "Well, then, we probably should get going."

His tone had an impish quality that broadened her smile, brightening the room even more.

**Scene XLIV – Los Angeles Freeway**

The Riptide zoomed up the 101, as much as the Riptide ever really zoomed anywhere.

The clues for the scavenger hunt were leading Chuck and Sarah towards the heart of old Hollywood. Because all the teams would be in the same area at the same time, they really needed to put in some face time and be seen by at least a couple of teams before their mission took them away.

If they didn't, they'd be making up more excuses involving flat tires or sudden illnesses to cover up the afternoon mission. He was

Chuck had trouble defining exactly how that would be any different from what they were doing by pretending to participate in the scavenger hunt. He tried not to think about that too carefully.

The pair was getting close to their destination; beautiful cars filled with beautiful people were becoming more and more common. The other cars demonstrated what it meant to truly zoom down a highway as their passengers looked down their noses at the Riptide.

The attitude didn't bother Chuck; this was L.A. after all. He pinned the scavenger hunt clue list to the steering wheel with one hand and took a last, longing peek. One clue was proving pesky; he felt like he should know the answer.

After nearly a minute, he gave up. With the upcoming mission and the deceiving his friends and family beforehand, his heart just wasn't in it. The whole routine was getting old.

He set the clue list aside. The dark mood from the apartment had returned in force; it proved harder to set aside than the list.

Chuck needed a distraction. "So, we have a mission later," he prompted.

Sarah looked up from her mission notes. "Yes. We're tasked with meeting the Fulcrum agent at the observatory. We find him, we drag as much information out of him as we can, and then we bring him in for further questioning."

"Why don't we just bring him in to begin with?"

"If we get the contact to give up some information voluntarily, it allows us to skip over the tedious denials about not knowing anything."

"And get right to the thumbscrews and Barry Manilow music."

"Or whatever works." Her face took on a greenish tint; she swallowed hard and focused intently on the notes once more.

Something about her tone made Chuck take his eyes off the road to glance over at her. "You all right?"

"I'm fine."

"You look car sick. You really shouldn't read in a moving car."

She stifled a laugh. "Chuck, I once read an entire mission briefing in a moving Afghani tank that had partially thrown a tread. Do you really think reading in a Skoda for a few minutes is enough to make me sick to my stomach?"

"I'm just saying you look like you ate something you shouldn't have."

"Ate something I shouldn't have. Kind of like the time I was…"

"…in a moving Afghani tank that had partially thrown a tread," he finished with her.

He couldn't muster a matching grin. "That story must kill at the CIA Christmas Party."

"Not as much as the gifts under the tree."

Chuck raised a pleasantly surprised eyebrow. "Did you just make a joke about the CIA?!" Sarah never joked about her agency.

She managed to look slightly embarrassed, but her playful smile didn't falter. "So did you figure out the other destinations on the scavenger hunt list?"

Chuck tapped the brakes as a black Mercedes coupe decided that the Skoda didn't really deserve all of the space it occupied. He frowned, irritated with the other driver. "Shouldn't we be focused on the mission?"

"We've got a scavenger hunt to win."

He shot her a look. "Win? Please."

"You think I'm letting Devon lord this over me for a year? No way."

"Sarah, you have to know there's no way we're going to come close to winning."

"Want to bet?"

The fear of the mission mingled with the disappointment of missing most of the scavenger hunt and guilt over the umpteenth deception of his family and friends. A single, flat expression told her what he thought about it all. "We really should just focus on the mission," he said, his voice low and dry.

"I understand, Chuck, I really do. It's hard sometimes."

"It's hard most of the time."

"It's not that bad. We'll duck out for a quick mission and be back before we're missed."

"You make it sound like a trip to the corner store."

"There's not all that much to this one. We can finish the mission briefing on the way to the observatory."

His fingers tightened around the wheel.

She grabbed the clue list and examined his illegible scribbles. "C'mon, let's plan our attack. Where are we headed first? We've got two–"

"God, Sarah, when do we get to be normal for a change?"

Taken aback, she could only stare at him at first. It took her a moment to recover enough to respond. "What's 'normal'?" she asked calmly.

"You know, 'normal'. Taking walks in the park. Holding hands. Trying to cobble together an edible meal despite a fundamental lack of cooking skills. It's not lying to my sister and working seven days a week."

"Really. You've always wanted to be normal? What about Charles Carmichael? Owner of a software company? Semi-retired at 26? Considering sailing in America's Cup? Is that normal?"

"Well, it was pretty normal at Stanford."

"This is apparently a news flash, but Stanford isn't for normal people, Chuck. Stanford is for extraordinary people with extraordinary talents who do extraordinary things."

"Present company excluded, of course."

She gave him an incredulous look. "You haven't done anything extraordinary recently?"

Chuck didn't have an answer for that.

"My point stands: normal is different for different people."

Somehow, they had gotten away from his point. Chuck tried to regroup. "That's just semantics. When is our relationship going to be about actually having a relationship and not about trying hard to make it look like a relationship?"

"How about now? Is that soon enough?"

He glanced over at her, puzzled by the response. "What do you mean?"

"What do you think we're going right now?"

"I thought we were going to put on a show for the other teams?"

"No, we're going to make sure we're seen participating in the scavenger hunt. Why can't that be us actually having a good time?"

"Because…" He thought about that for a minute. Why did their participation have to be anything other than the truth?

His response was slow and hesitant. "I think I'm having trouble answering that mostly because you're right," he said sheepishly.

She smiled reassuringly. "Don't feel bad; it's an easy trap for us to fall into. It actually wasn't something I'd really thought about until Ellie said a few things to me."

"Ellie?"

"That doesn't matter," she said in a way that brooked no discussion. "Our old routine was to go somewhere and show off our fake relationship. Our new routine is to go somewhere are show off our very real relationship. We'll just have to get used to that."

Before he could say anything else, she reached over, took his near hand from the wheel and wrapped it in hers. She seemed to savor each little sensation of his warm skin against her cool as she very deliberately interlaced her fingers with his, one finger at a time.

It wasn't the first time the two had held hands. The two had held hands any number of times for the benefit of Ellie or Awesome or Morgan or any number of Chuck's friends. However, this time seemed different. Very, very different.

His dark mood was banished from the car around exit 7b.

Sarah said, "Let's do the scavenger hunt while we can. We may not finish, but so what? It's not really about who wins, is it?"

A bit of Chuck's competitive spirit surfaced. He groused a bit under his breath, causing Sarah to laugh appreciatively. "OK, fine, it's a little bit about who wins, but that's not all of it. We have to seize what opportunities we're afforded, because those opportunities are precious. We'll never know what tomorrow could bring."

He thought about that. He thought more about the feel of her hand in his.

"Unless you'd rather waste the time moping around?"

Her tone wasn't accusing; it was gentle with a hint of a challenge. It made him smile despite himself. "I guess you'd be forced to take drastic measures if I did that." His smile grew; he even sounded more like his usual self.

"I'd probably have to shoot you," she said archly. "Nothing serious; maybe a nice safe thigh wound."

"Seems a bit crude, even for a CIA agent."

She laughed at the barb. "True enough." She slipped her hand out of his and undid her seatbelt, leaning across the gear shift as she adjusted her position to the edge of her seat. She put her left hand on the back of his neck. "But in case you decide to get grumpy again, just remember: we CIA agents can be very … persuasive … when we want to be."

"Sarah, what are you–"

Her head tilted to the side. Suddenly, he felt a wave of heat on his jaw line. Her breath was impossibly warm, growing slowly hotter until her soft lips gently brushed his skin.

A jolt shot through his entire body. The car would have skidded across three lanes if she hadn't had her right hand on the wheel.

His last thought, before thought utterly abandoned him, was that it was a damned good thing that she was good at her job.

* * *

Sarah and Chuck spent the next two hours laughing their way through the Hollywood streets. Their hands were rarely apart and the next smile was never far away.

Per Sarah's suggestion, they attacked the hunt with a vengeance. They found a 'C' in the guitar case of a musician performing at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. They found an 'I' in an envelope taped under a bench outside the Capitol Records tower. They found an 'F', cheekily enough, in the suit pocket of the George W. Bush mannequin at the Hollywood Wax Museum. They found an 'R' stashed in the frame of an article entitled _Support Is Generous for Bra Museum_ in the Frederick's of Hollywood store.

Chuck left the last destination with a flaming face and a wickedly grinning girlfriend.

"How many we got?" he asked, looking to change the subject.

She sorted through the letters in her pocket. "Seven."

"We got time for one more?"

Sarah glanced at her watch, her face suddenly serious. The smile was quickly back. "Which way?" was all she asked.

Chuck pointed; the two took off down the street, as if determined to somehow outrun the ticking clock. Both of them refused to look up to where the last tourist destination on the docket, the domed observatory, watched over the city like a sentry sitting on a hilltop underneath the brooding sky.


	22. Agents and Anagrams

_Thanks to Aragorn once more …_

* * *

**Scene XLIV – Griffith Observatory**

Chuck strode down the western edge of the park-like plaza fronting the Griffith Park Observatory. Blasts of cold wind and fear of what was to come took turns sending chills down his spine.

Mounted high on a hilltop, the observatory offered several perches with breathtaking views of downtown Los Angeles for those willing to brave the clear, frigid air. From the looks of things, today few people thought the view was worth the price.

That was a good thing. Fewer people meant that any Fulcrum agents wouldn't be like trees hiding in a forest. Fewer people meant fewer targets for Chuck to scan, hoping for a flash. Fewer people meant fewer innocents potentially caught in the crossfire.

Of course, fewer people also meant fewer witnesses to keep guns and tempers holstered. Fulcrum agents might not care about body counts, but they did care about attracting unnecessary attention.

It was strange to have a mission on such familiar turf. Chuck had been on the grounds of the observatory numerous times and had always enjoyed his visits. Now he found himself seeing the property through different eyes.

The Astronomers Monument, centered amidst the stark white sidewalks criss-crossing the browned grass, was no longer an interesting exhibit, but rather a potential meeting point. The exterior staircases curving up the rounded edges of the building were no longer elegant architectural features; they were potential escape routes. The three short copper-domed towers weren't telescopes; they were vantage points and potential cover.

_Nothing like the threat of being shot to take the fun out of a place_, he thought.

Chuck was very conscious of the heavy leather bag he carried in his right hand. It turned out that three million dollars weighed a great deal, even when most of the bills were actually worthless.

He was also very conscious of the blonde agent walking lockstep with him on his left. Sarah had her black mission jacket and her professional mask in place as she calmly assessed her surroundings, but that didn't stop her from taking a moment to catch Chuck's eye. She shot him a tight reassuring smile.

It helped. Chuck tried to build on that as he turned his eyes forward. He adjusted his dark blue baseball cap and released a bit more of the mounting tension with a quick exhalation. The steam of his breath quickly dissipated in yet another gust of wind.

He still hadn't gotten the hang of the moments before a mission. His every instinct crackled with the confident certainty that he really should be headed in the opposite direction at a pretty good clip. Having Sarah near helped him set aside those impulses.

Mostly.

Despite the agents' strict instructions to him, Chuck allowed himself a quick glance at the roofline of the white, art deco-styled building. Casey was up there, somewhere, keeping an eye on things from one of the rooftop terraces. Knowing he was there also helped.

The pair reached the top landing of an exterior stairwell and stopped to survey their surroundings. Los Angeles was laid out before them beneath the cloudy white sky. The Hollywood sign was just visible over the lip of the dormant hills to their right. A metal bust of James Dean, commemorating the filming of the movie _Rebel Without a Cause_ on the site, was mounted on the wall between them and the sign. In the film three characters, two men and a woman, had come out of the observatory; the weaker man had panicked and been tragically killed. Chuck didn't care for the potential parallels one bit.

An artificial exterior hallway extended from the base of the stairs below. The right side of the 150-foot long corridor was lined with a sturdy metal frame fitted with tinted glass panels, allowing an almost unimpeded view of the surrounding hills. The left side of the hall was provided by the side of the building, a wall of similarly-tinted windows that revealed little of the building's interior. The hallway was an entry to the observatory that doubled as an exhibit demonstrating the movements of the sun.

"Entering the Corridor," Sarah said into the mike tucked inside her collar.

From somewhere on the grounds, Casey answered into their ear pieces, "Roger that."

As Sarah and Chuck went down one side of the stairwell, a mother escorted a pair of feisty children up the other. One girl of about nine, apparently less bothered by the weather than Chuck, made it clear that she wasn't ready to leave. She pulled against the firm grasp of the woman while screaming at the top of her lungs. The younger boy agreed; he seemed far more interested in playing on the staircase than actually climbing it.

The mother corralled her two kids and herded them upwards. The protests of the children faded as the family cleared the top of the stairs, leaving the hall empty and eerily silent. The only sounds were the crunching scuffs of the agents' footfalls and the whistling of the wind over the walls of the artificial hall.

They had only taken a few steps when a lone man entered the corridor at the far end. He sported a familiar-looking black jacket, one that looked identical to Chuck's, that covered his white-collared shirt and the tops of his jeans. He seemed deliberately casual as he walked around a large bronze model to examine part of the exhibit.

The two stopped. "Possible contact ahead," Sarah said to Casey.

"Understood," said Casey.

"Anything?" Sarah asked Chuck.

He squinted, and then shook his head. "The guy's a hundred feet away. He could have 'FULCRUM' tattooed across his forehead and I couldn't tell at this range."

She motioned with her head, and the pair started walking again.

Chuck didn't remember feeling so claustrophobic the last time he visited the corridor. Of course, then he had been far more fascinated with the exhibit. Now all he saw was the lack of maneuverability.

The glass walls were a good twenty feet high but only ten feet apart. The only escape routes were the steep stairs they had just descended, a pair of heavy glass doors leading into the observatory, and cutouts in the wall to their right leading to the narrow raised patio. It was not a good place for things to go wrong.

They had closed about half the gap when the dark-haired man noticed the pair. His eyes seemed to widen slightly when he saw the bag in Chuck's hand. He turned back to the exhibit for a long moment.

Chuck squinted again, trying to take in everything he could about the other man in a concerted effort to flash. It was no use. Either Chuck couldn't pick up enough information, or there wasn't anything in the Intersect on the man's affiliation to Fulcrum.

The man glanced back at them, subtly assessing them before starting to head towards them with a slow, fluid stride. He approached the two as if intending to pass between them. His eyes hardened into cool hazel agates as he looked expectantly at their faces.

The three stopped simultaneously, brought into a stalemate by the narrow confines of the hall. The expression of the other man brightened into a forced smile. "Excuse me," he said.

Wordlessly, the two agents split to opposite sides, allowing the man to pass between them.

Chuck saw Sarah's eyes examine the man from the rear. There were no weapons evident. Chuck also took the opportunity to examine the man, but once more, the Intersect wasn't helpful.

Sarah apparently decided that the time was right. "Ducks float poorly on stormy seas," she said.

The Fulcrum agent, two steps beyond the pair, stopped and pivoted with ominous ease. "But water rolls off a duck's back." A different kind of smile came to his face, one of determination and fortitude.

His eyes kept their hard edge. "About time," he grumbled. "We were getting dangerously low on cash."

"Sorry," Sarah said with a sardonic smile. "We had some problems at the ATM."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Veron got taken in?"

Chuck nodded to confirm. He was determined to speak at little as possible, but nodding seemed safe.

"You Amafor?" Sarah asked.

"No, but he's around."

"What shall we call you?"

The man gave an irritated smirk. "Call me Plato."

At that, Chuck smiled, pleasantly surprised. "Plato. 'All the gold which is under or upon the earth is not enough to give in exchange for virtue.'"

"I prefer, 'Death is not the worst that can happen to men.'" His expression flattened.

Chuck's smile fled.

"The bag please?" Plato demanded more than asked.

Sarah nodded to Chuck; he handed the bag to the man.

Plato took the bag without bothering to check its contents. Instead, he focused on Chuck. "You seem nervous. Why is that?"

Despite the chill in the air, Chuck found his body threatening to start sweating.

"New recruit," Sarah explained.

The other man's face reflected a wary understanding. "Just remember," he said to Chuck, "that we're doing what we're doing for the right reasons."

Chuck desperately wanted to ask questions. What was Fulcrum doing? How could they go against their fellow agents? How could they betray everything they had sworn to protect?

Instead, he nodded, as if he understood.

Sarah retook control on the conversation. "There will be a different contact next time. In the bag you'll find the amount Veron was supposed to bring. I assume that should be enough to keep you operational?"

"Hopefully. And hopefully the new contact will understand that pass phrases shouldn't sound like something out of a bad B movie."

"Well, that will be between you and him. The old phrases will apply for the next drop."

Plato's pose became patient, as if waiting for something else. "Anything else?"

She shrugged, looking around. "Our instructions were to give you the money, and that's it."

"That's it?" He stared at both of the agents. "When the hell do we get our uranium?"

* * *

Casey stared back at the parking lot from the rooftop terrace above the corridor. The height of the corridor with Bartowski and Walker made it impossible to keep a constant watch on the trio from the terrace railing without being obvious, but as long as it was two versus one, he didn't have any real issues with not having direct eyes on the situation at all times. He was close enough to help in a hurry, and he was positioned to ensure that no unfriendlies got the drop on any of them.

As Walker and Bartowski approached their contact, he turned and took another stroll across the terrace, giving him an excuse to check out the handful of people braving the weather on the roof and peek over the railing at the situation below. Satisfied, he leaned on the south wall, staring towards Los Angeles.

He listened carefully to the exchange below through his earpiece. He made out the exchange of pass phrases. He caught the Fulcrum agent's code name and his questioning of Bartowski.

Even while distracted, he wasn't at all startled when the man leaned on the wall to his left. Casey had easily picked him out on his stroll across the terrace.

It wasn't hard to recognize your ex-partner, no matter how many years it had been.

The man admired the view as he mimicked Casey's pose. Casey reached into his right pocket and flipped his microphone onto mute.

"I'm still not speaking to you," Casey said in greeting.

The man chuckled. "What an amusing choice of words. Clearly you are speaking to me. Saying the words just makes you a liar." The man turned his head. "You're not a liar, Casey. If anything, your problem was that you were always a little too honest."

Samuel Morland was not only Casey's ex-partner, he was one of the best the NSA had to offer. He was also a bit of a know-it-all, something that had rubbed Casey the wrong way on more than one occasion.

The lecture finished, Morland shifted back to the view, tightening the collar of his long dark coat as a particularly vicious gust of win buffeted the roof. Behind the pair, cries from the other people in the roof indicated that the gust was the last straw; they headed below.

Casey didn't flinch. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"Same thing as you, I'd bet."

"Amafor?"

Morland gave a thin smile. "I've been sticking close to him for some time now." He turned his head and eyed Casey carefully. "Where's your partner?"

"Down below," Casey said.

Morland looked surprised. "You did finally get a new partner. Which one is it? The guy or the girl?"

"The girl. Do you mind? I'm kind of trying to listen here."

Morland proved inconsiderate of what Casey was trying to do; it wasn't the first time. "John Casey with a new partner, and a skirt, no less. Never thought I'd see the day. Who are they? I didn't recognize them."

"Be surprised if you did. They're CIA."

"Really. How'd that happen? Run out of NSA agents willing to partner with you?"

"None of your damn business," Casey replied. Tired of Morland asking all the questions, he added, "How did you find out about Amafor, anyway?"

"A Fulcrum agent told me about him. Told me how to find him. I'd been looking for him for a long time."

The choice of words bothered Casey. His neck jerked his head around so he could look at Morland.

His old partner nodded as he stared at the Los Angeles skyline. His left hand trained his Glock on Casey's midsection, carefully shielded from general view behind his broad chest.

"I'm Amafor."


	23. Stumbles

_I know I promised to update more frequently, but life keeps getting in the way. Hopefully posting two chapters together helps a little._

_Thanks to both Aragorn and Go-Chuck-Go for the betas._

_It goes without saying that I still don't own Chuck..._

* * *

**Scene XLV – Griffith Observatory, Rooftop Terrace**

Morland's pose was deceptively casual. A twitch of his index finger would send a 45-caliber slug to join the sick feeling in Casey's gut.

"You're Amafor?!" Casey asked in stunned disbelief. "You're Fulcrum?!" He couldn't believe it. His head swirled. He had his problems with the man, but Morland was one of the most dedicated agents the agency had. Or so Casey had thought.

His old partner grinned. "I'm a little disappointed you didn't figure it out, actually. 'Eric Amafor'? 'For America'?"

Casey cringed. The alias was a simple anagram, a twisting of the letters tattooed over an American flag on his ex-partner's right bicep. It had never occurred to him to wonder why this particular Fulcrum agent called himself by more than one name; all the other Fulcrum agents went by single names.

_Why the hell didn't Bartowski figure that out?_ he grumbled to himself. _He's supposed to be the genius with puzzles._

Morland / Amafor shook his head. "God, Casey, it's sickening just how predictable you are. You're blaming your partner for not figuring that out, aren't you."

Casey ground his teeth together.

Morland kept twisting the knife. "Or maybe the analyst? He's probably your scapegoat on this one. You've been on the job how many years and still never made a mistake."

"Apparently trusting you was a mistake. Just how long have you been a traitor?"

"Traitor? Hardly. The NSA is broken, Casey. The CIA and FBI aren't any better. You know that. Hell, you told me that any number of times. Well, you convinced me. Our little chats are part of the reason I joined Fulcrum."

"Now who's trying to blame somebody else?"

"Please. I don't regret joining Fulcrum for a second. We're going to take back control of the intelligence community; then we're going to reclaim this country's destiny. Oh, and Casey, kindly keep your hands where I can see them."

Casey's hand had been sneaking towards his jacket pocket to re-activate the microphone. He froze.

"Your gun," Morland demanded. "Left hand, two fingers."

Casey complied, unzipping his jacket just far enough for him to reach in and pull out the gun. He set it on the wall and slid it to Morland with the screech of metal scraping painted concrete. "Don't lose that gun," Casey warned. "It's my favorite."

"I can see that. You even built your own silencer." He examined Casey's handiwork. "Not bad," he said with grudging admiration.

Casey laced his fingers together in front of him. In an effort to calm himself, he stared at a bank of clouds blowing across the sky. A moment later, he felt calm enough to continue. "So what now, Morland?"

"My agents secure Bartowski and Walker, and we take them somewhere for an informal little chat."

"You know their names."

"I broke protocol earlier today and reported in. Turns out you three are towards the top of the Fulcrum wish list, and since you had Veron's PDA, we figured the three of you might come to us. Again, thanks for being your predictable self and underestimating what you would find here."

A low rumbling noise escaped Casey's throat.

Morland grinned as he stood upright, careful to keep his gun hidden in case anyone happened by. "Ah, the classic John Casey grunt. I did miss that. Cheer up: you may be losing a partner today, but you always worked much better alone."

* * *

There were few things that frightened Chuck more than the idea of Fulcrum having uranium. Torture was one. Ellie or Morgan being kidnapped was another. Being forced to climb the rope in gym class was still another, although he was prepared to admit that was just a personal hang-up.

Still, he was utterly unprepared for the concept, and he was pretty sure his face showed it. Luckily, Plato seemed to be focused on Sarah.

"Uranium?" she asked after a pause. "Sorry, we don't know anything about that."

The Fulcrum agent responded, "It's kind of hard to complete our mission without it."

Chuck laughed nervously. "I guess it's not exactly the type of thing you find at the grocery store on aisle twelve between the Tupperware and the pickled beets."

Sarah said, "Maybe your next contact will be able to answer that. We're just here on a one-time basis."

The man smirked, as if he knew something he really shouldn't.

Something was wrong, and from the meaningful glance Sarah shot Chuck, she sensed it, too. She said, "Well, if that's everything–"

"Let me check the money." Plato carried the briefcase through a cutout in the wall to the patio; the pair followed. Chuck had thought the man was going to set the case on one of the tables, but instead, he passed between a pair of tables and went all the way to the western wall. That made no sense.

It made even less sense when the man eyed them for a second, spun around like a discus thrower and hurled the bag into the air. The case pushed its way through rustling tree branches before bouncing down the hill end over end and disappearing in the underbrush.

Sarah's gun was out and fixed on the Fulcrum agent the moment the case left his hand. "Don't move!"

Behind them, two guns cocked. Sarah and Chuck looked over their inside shoulders, and then at each other in dismay. A brown-haired woman wearing a grey wool coat and a tall sandy-haired man with a pointy nose stood behind them, looking very much like a cute young couple except for the guns leveled at the agents' heads. Reluctantly, Sarah lowered her gun hand and dropped the weapon to the ground. The female retrieved the gun. She quickly frisked both Sarah and Chuck, and then shook her head.

"Casey?!" Chuck muttered heatedly into his collar mike while being frisked. How had Casey missed the two sneaking up on them?

Plato stuck a finger in his ear, and then nodded. "I'm afraid Mr. Casey is indisposed and will be unable to join us. Perhaps you'd accompany us on a little ride?" He swept his arm back towards the cutout in the glass wall.

When Chuck and Sarah hesitated, he added, "Please. As you'll undoubtedly find out, I get irritated when I need to ask questions twice."

* * *

Morland stood a good ten feet away from his captive; he took his finger out of his ear after muttering some final instructions into his own hidden mike. Finished, he said to Casey, "Well, we have your friends. The question becomes what to do with you. Or maybe a better way to put it is: have you considered Jennings' offer to join Fulcrum?"

Casey could answer that one truthfully. "I have."

After a pregnant pause, Morland asked, "And?"

"See, the problem that I have is that you can't believe my answer either way, what with the gun pointed at me and all."

"Unless you'd like to go ahead and tell me to stick my offer some place unpleasant."

"Oh, I'm not stupid enough to go and do that."

"You sell yourself short."

"Cute."

Morland frowned. "However, you have a point." He thought about that a bit more carefully. He waved his gun in circles to his side as he thought about it. "Fine. You have 48 hours." He put his gun into his pocket.

The disbelief was plain on Casey's face. "So, what, you're just going to let me go?"

"Why not?"

"Because I know you're Fulcrum. I could tell Beckman."

Morland laughed a belittling laugh. "Go ahead, Casey. Tell Beckman. Tell her that your ex-partner is now a Fulcrum agent. Then explain how your new partners both got captured while you were watching their backs, yet you miraculously escaped without a scratch. You'll be in a cell before breakfast tomorrow – if they don't just shoot you."

* * *

Sarah and Chuck led the group of five back to the artificial hallway. The two nameless Fulcrum agents kept positions directly behind Sarah and Chuck. Their guns were safely hidden from view in their coats, but Chuck had little doubt that the bullets wouldn't be bothered by the annoying bits of intervening fabric.

"You messed up," Sarah told the leader with a vicious smirk, her eyes darting back and forth as she listened for the response behind her.

"Really. How's that."

"You told us about the uranium."

"What, you think that was by accident? You and your friends have an annoying habit of finding out what we're up to, and we needed to know whether you really knew this time. Your answers and your faces told us what it would have taken us hours to find out through interrogation. The beginning phases of an interrogation can be so tedious."

Movie images flashed through Chuck's mind: a tray full of shiny knives, cables hooked to batteries to administer electric shocks, a mad dentist probing his mouth. "I don't suppose you plan on using Barry Manilow music," Chuck said glumly.

Plato shot a confused look at Chuck.

As the five approached the second set of doorways, the heavy glass door to the building opened. A young couple came out; the boy held the door for his girlfriend.

Sarah's eyes narrowed. She casually looked up the building to the terrace railing; a look of horror came to her face. "Casey, don't!" she yelled.

The other four people in her group turned and looked up as one. The Fulcrum agents were crouched, ready for action. The hope in Chuck's face was quickly replaced by confusion.

Just as the teen-ager let the door go, Sarah gave Chuck a sharp push in the chest with both hands. "Run!" she shouted.

For his part, Chuck barely kept his feet. He took five big steps as he staggered backwards, a shocked look on his face. He bounced off the door as it swung shut and stumbled into the ticket office. The door slammed shut behind him.

"Ohmigod!" he said in a hushed voice, finding himself on his feet in the entryway into the observatory – and for the moment, out of the range of Fulcrum's weapons.

His mind moved faster than he thought possible.

_Sarah was captured._

_Three agents were outside._

"_Wait in the car, Chuck," Casey snarled._

_I'm a member of this team. I want to help._

"_Every member of a team has their role," Sarah explained patiently._

_I won't leave you, Sarah. I won't do it._

"_You're not just any asset,"she said._

_I'm the Intersect._

"_The job always has to come first," Sarah said._

_Three agents were outside._

"_You can't take down three agents," Casey sneered. "You couldn't even beat one."_

_He's right._

_They're right._

_Run._

_I'm so sorry, Sarah._

_Run!_

Hating himself with every step, he dashed across the room.


	24. WWSD, or What Would Spock Do?

**Scene XLVI – Griffith Park Observatory**

"Mr. Bartowski!" a security guard said in a delighted voice. "It's been a while since we've seen you up here."

Chuck skidded to a halt in front of the ticket-taking station. He dug through his pockets. "Clarence, hey! Yeah, it has been a while. Been kinda busy."

Clarence was an older, portly black man clad in a gray uniform that looked more like a Halloween costume than anything official. He did, however, carry a very real sidearm and a walkie-talkie.

Chuck was tempted to get Clarence involved, or at least have him call the police. He decided against both. Clarence was at least 60 years old, and if Chuck got him involved, it would be a death sentence.

"I can tell you're excited about the new version of the Nimoy show," Clarence said.

"What?" Chuck asked. He found what he was looking for: his season pass. Devon had given it to him for Christmas, and he had stuck it in his pocket, never thinking he would really need it. He handed the pass to Clarence. "Yeah, the show." He tittered. "You can probably tell, I don't want to miss another minute."

The guard gave the pass a cursory examination and smiled even more broadly as he handed it back. "Don't worry; it just started a few minutes ago."

"Thanks, Clarence!" Chuck sprinted to the right as soon as he passed through the turnstile.

"Huh," Clarence said in a low voice to the ticket booth girl. "The show's good, but nothing worth getting winded over."

* * *

Sarah's payback for her rash act was immediate. The pointy-nosed man struck a solid blow on the base of her neck, which dropped her to her knees. Two guns were immediately trained on her head.

"That was really stupid," Plato commented. "Bartowski's going nowhere. We've got eight agents to your three, and two of you are neutralized. Do you really think he's going to outsmart all of us?"

She looked up at him defiantly. "Yes, I do."

Something about her confidence gave him pause. "Take her to the truck," he curtly ordered. "If she pulls another stunt like that, shoot her in the leg. That should slow her down a little."

Without waiting for a response, Plato started walking. "Bartowksi's escaped," he muttered into his mike. "Eyes open everyone."

He yanked open the door to the ticket room. He frowned. Bartowski was gone. How did the man get through so quickly? The guard just stood there grinning; he wouldn't do that if somebody had burst through without a ticket.

Still, the only explanation was that Bartowski had gone inside. Plato walked over to the entrance.

"Just can't stay away, huh," Clarence said, taking the already torn ticket.

"Nowhere I'd rather be," Plato said with a forced smile.

The uniformed man finished examining the stub. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," he said, inspecting the man's name tag more closely, "Clarence."

"My pleasure, sir."

Plato passed through the turnstile. As soon as he was out of the guard's earshot, he spoke exasperatedly into his mike. "You idiots missed one of the guards. Could one of you please deal with Clarence? He's currently taking tickets."

"Sorry, sir," a nasally voice responded. "His shift just started and he must have gone directly to his station. We'll deal with him."

"Where's Bartowski?"

"He went to the right. We'll keep tracking him."

Plato walked around curve of the exhibit hall at a steady pace, inexorably chasing down Bartowski. The man had no way to escape; they had the place locked down.

* * *

"Get up," the pointy-nosed man commanded.

Sarah complied, albeit slowly. She took a moment to rub her neck. "Nice shot," she said sarcastically.

"Behave yourself, or next time you get worse."

Her glare told him what she thought of the threat. "You know, I don't get Fulcrum agents. You act like we're the enemy."

"You are the enemy," he replied. "You work against everything we work for."

"You have to admit, you don't give the government much choice. You blow things up, you partner with rogue organizations and mercenaries, you torture our operatives without a second thought."

"And you don't?" scoffed the woman, sliding behind Sarah.

Sarah shrugged. "Again, what are we supposed to do? We're trying to defend the country, and you're attacking it. You haven't exactly given us reason to trust your motives."

"She's stalling," the man said. "Move."

She hesitated. Again, the payback was immediate, this time delivered by the butt of the woman's gun to the back of her head.

Lying on the ground on her stomach, Sarah blew some bangs out of her face. These two were starting to get on her nerves.

* * *

Amafor frowned as he pushed a finger against his ear piece. He reached into his pocket and fiddled with the volume control. "One of your pals managed to slip away. Guess I'll be keeping you company for a little bit longer. You know, in case you choose the wrong side."

"Walker got away? Pretty sloppy, Morland."

"Not Walker. Bartowski."

Casey laughed derisively. "Your men couldn't keep Bartowski from escaping? That doesn't exactly help your recruiting pitch."

"He's not going anywhere, and until we catch him, neither are you. Sit."

The NSA agent obliged, taking a seat on the low wall. Amafor took a similar position, far enough down the wall that Casey couldn't try anything and close enough that there was no chance of missing if Casey tried anything. He hid his gun from view under his arm, although the lack of people on the blustery rooftop patio made the effort unnecessary.

Both men stared into space for a bit. Casey finally said, "So, convince me."

"What's that?"

"Convince me that I should join Fulcrum."

Morland's grin took over his whole face. "I knew you were seriously considering it," he said delightedly.

"I haven't decided jack yet."

"I think you have. I think you're exactly where I once was, just after I was first approached by Fulcrum: you're having trouble figuring out how you can betray your fellow agents, but you can't deny the truth of what you are being told. You can't deny that strong actions are necessary to protect this country, and you know that you'd make a difference for a change."

"Something like that," Casey admitted.

Morland turned towards Casey, his demeanor completely changed. He talked rapidly, conspiratorially, explaining and urging and cajoling.

Casey sat, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. His body language was that of a disillusioned child being told there was no Santa Claus, hearing what he needed to hear no matter how desperately he didn't want to believe it.

* * *

Clarence's radio crackled to life. "Clarence, would you mind coming to the security room for a moment?"

"Sure thing," he said cheerfully. Putting the device back on his belt, he called to the woman in the ticket booth, "Sue, you got it for a few."

Sue nodded without looking up from her book.

Humming a gentle tune, Clarence strolled through the north side of the lower level, passing out friendly smiles as he went. Reaching the far corner, he pulled out a set of keys and opened the nondescript door to the security room.

The door automatically swung shut behind him. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the contrast between the glare of the monitors and the darkness of the room. He realized that he didn't recognize the man sitting in the chair by the monitor station.

"What the–"

The muzzle of a gun poked into his back, pointing at his heart. "Break time, Clarence," a menacing voice said.

Slowly, Clarence raised his hands.

Unseen hands dispossessed him of his gun, keys, and radio. He was roughly pushed to the back of the room among three other uniformed guards. "Sit down!"

He stared at the man who had just accosted him, more confused than scared, before slowly lowering himself to the ground. Convinced he was neutralized, his assailant took a post behind the man watching the monitors.

Scanning the three men sitting next to him only confused Clarence more; one of the guards was a complete stranger. In a low voice, Clarence asked, "Who the hell are you?"

The stranger offered a surprisingly calm smile. "First day."

"You picked a lousy day to start work."

"I dunno. Somehow I think everything will work out."

"If you say so," Clarence said dubiously.

The man in the chair watched a monitor carefully. He lifted a radio to his mouth. "Target on the second level. Entering the planetarium through the west doors."

* * *

Chuck carefully shut the large bronze and wooden door behind him. He tried to find the balance between catching his breath and wheezing so loudly as to attract the attention of any of the fifty or so people in the room.

Sarah was captured. Casey was missing in action. Chuck was the only one left, and he was unarmed and hardly dangerous.

It wasn't good.

He tried to get his bearings. A brilliant night sky was projected across the domed roof of the chamber. It was breathtakingly realistic, seemingly infinite in depth and in possibility.

Hidden speakers thrummed as Leonard Nimoy's voice filled the room with descriptions of space in all its majesty. At the moment, Chuck didn't need Nimoy as much as he needed Spock.

_What would Spock do?_ Chuck wondered. He thought about that. Well, first he'd remain calm.

He gave up on that after about five seconds. Chuck was no Vulcan. Fear of Fulcrum and self-loathing for abandoning Sarah surged through his system. Catching his breath was proving a tall enough order; completely calming down was just too much to ask.

_What else would Spock do?_

Spock would assess the situation. It was Chuck against at least four Fulcrum agents, the three that had Sarah and one, if not more, with Casey. He had no weapons. Help was too far away to call. He was the Intersect, which meant he was too valuable to fall into enemy hands. The Fulcrum agents clearly expected Team Chuck, which meant Fulcrum was likely prepared for this kind of scenario.

It was obvious: Spock would look to hide or escape. It was the only rational decision. The only real advantage Chuck had was an intimate knowledge of the observatory floor plan, having been here so often before. He could find a place to hide, maybe for long enough that Fulcrum would be forced to give up. He might even be able to slip away into the trees.

Of course, Sarah and Casey would probably end up being tortured and killed, and he'd end up in a bunker once his handlers were gone, effectively ending any semblance of a real life.

Spock wasn't being a lot of help.

He sighed. Everything was even, except for the numbers. The Fulcrum agents had the same training, the same equipment, the same…

Chuck stopped. The Fulcrum agents had the same equipment! Plato was even wearing the same jacket Chuck was.

They might be using the same radio devices.

Chuck pulled his receiver out of his pocket and started flipping channels. This particular device had sixty-four frequencies; he flipped from channel to channel, spending only a second or so on each.

About a third of the way through the frequencies, he got lucky. Plato said, "Status check." Voices began responding.

"Entry to parking lot secure."

"Casey under control on the western terrace."

"Escorting Walker to the stairs towards the parking lot."

"Security room under control. Site secure. Bartowski still in planetarium by the western doors."

Chuck's blood ran cold.

"Roger that," Plato said. "Going to reacquire Bartowski."

A regular agent would have used the radio to stay one step ahead his pursuit, but Chuck knew that plan would end in failure. Somebody was watching the security cameras, and that completely negated his advantage. Even if he got the drop on a Fulcrum agent, odds were very slim that he would best them in hand-to-hand combat, and "very slim" was probably being generous.

No, he needed something that would level the playing field. He needed to get Casey and Sarah back in the game.

Fifty or so pairs of eyes stayed focused on the roof as he walked to the center of the planetarium. He pulled the mike off his collar and the ear wick from his ear.

On a previous mission, Chuck had nearly been hit by a car while crossing a street, and the driver had laid on his horn. The horn had nearly deafened Casey; the NSA agent had the volume on his ear piece turned way up, like the Fulcrum agents who were working outside may have done to be able to hear over the gusts of wind rushing across their ears. If Chuck could create a feedback loop as well…

He turned the volume all the way up on both his ear piece and the microphone. Pinching the devices together, he got up on his toes so he could hold the pair up as high as he could.

He unmuted his microphone.

"Should man ever leave the confines of the Milky Way," Nimoy droned, "he will no doubt be staggered by the infinite vastness of space."

Across the complex, Fulcrum agents emitted pained cries as the dulcet, incredibly loud voice of Leonard Nimoy quickly transformed into a high-pitched shriek deep within their ears.


	25. A Screeching Halt

_Thanks to Go-Chuck-Go for the beta-read on the next three chapters ... all mistakes, both new and ignoring her advice, are my own._

**

* * *

**

**Scene XLVII – Griffith Observatory**

When an agent's guard drops, bad things happen. A single moment of distraction can make all the difference.

The pair of agents behind Sarah on the stairs gasped in pain. She turned to find the two agents reaching up and pulling their ear wicks out. The grey-coated woman discarded hers as if it burnt her fingers.

Sarah was on the other woman in an instant. Leaping down the stairs, she kicked the woman in the chest before she could recover. A tangled mass of agent and coat went tumbling down the stairs; her gun bounced and skidded down the corridor behind her.

The pointy-nosed man heard his partner cry out and turned to see Sarah crouched on the other side of the railing. His eyes widened and he swung his piece around.

Seeing the danger, Sarah went horizontal, grabbing hold of the weathered steel banister and swinging underneath it like a gymnast. The man's shot went over her head, ricocheting harmlessly off the concrete wall behind her as again her feet struck home. The man stumbled back against the wall, air whooshing from his lungs as the momentum of the impact carried his arms back against the wall.

Sarah landed in a crouch and launched her next attack, a sharp strike to the gut. As her opponent hunched over, she wrested his gun away with her left hand even as her right repaid him with a chop to the base of the neck. The blow sent him tumbling down the stairs after his partner. He came to rest in a crumpled heap, unmoving.

The other Fulcrum agent pulled herself to her feet. Disoriented, she desperately looked around for her gun.

Sarah's glare and her gun fixed on the other woman. "Don't move," she ordered.

The woman wisely chose to comply.

"Hands on your head. Turn around."

Again, the Fulcrum agent obeyed.

Sarah put her backside on the railing and gracefully spun her legs over the top so she could approach the woman on the same side of the stairs. She carefully descended, watching for any body language that would indicate an attack. There was none.

When she reached the woman, she clubbed her on the back of the head with the butt of the gun. The woman dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"I'd say we're even," said Sarah as she stuck the gun in her holster. "What do you think?"

The unconscious woman didn't have a response.

* * *

Clarence was ticked off. "What the hell is wrong with you?" he asked the men watching the screens. "This is an observatory. What could you possibly–"

"Shut up!" the standing man ordered. His eyes never left the monitors.

"I'm too old for this nonsense. There's nothing here worth stealing! What, you after the meteorites? The moon rocks? There's what, a few hundred bucks in the cash registers?"

This time the man's eyes left the monitors long enough to shoot Clarence a threatening glare. "I said, 'Shut up!'"

"Fool gets a gun in his hand and he suddenly thinks he's a big man. Put the piece down and come over here. I'm sixty-four years old and I'll still kick your butt."

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" the man yelled as he crossed the room, putting the muzzle of the gun in Clarence's face.

Clarence stared at the man, unfazed.

The handheld radio on the monitoring station blared, filling the room with an awful, shrill noise. Both captors instinctively turned to look.

Faster than Clarence could register, the stranger next to him burst into action. He grabbed the gun from in front of Clarence's face and landed a vicious elbow on the owner's nose. As the man staggered backwards, the guard took two steps and put his foot on the chest of the man in the chair. He extended his leg, sending the chair rolling. The gun was suddenly leveled at the two men. They disgustedly raised their hands in surrender.

"Thanks," the stranger said to Clarence. "You don't have any handcuffs around here, do you?"

Clarence stood up, scratching his head as he tried to figure out what had just happened. "Wow," he finally said. "Guess they improved the hiring standards around here."

* * *

Morland winced as the high-pitched feedback filled his ear. Hunched over next to him, Casey wasn't fully prepared for the opportunity. However, the other man's guard was down even before the distraction, which gave Casey extra time to react.

He fired off a left cross. Morland turned just in time to see four knuckles heading for the center of his face; a priceless expression of surprise appeared just before the fist made contact. His head jerked to the side, pulling his body with it over the edge.

Instinctively, Casey reached out on his follow-through and grabbed Morland by the lapel. The man did an awkward half-summersault before Casey's arm stopped the fall; the impact yanked his chest against the top of the wall and jarred Morland's gun loose. The Glock plummeted, softly thumping into the ground far below.

"What was that about?" Morland asked, seemingly unconcerned to be swaying two stories above the ground with blood trickling from his nose.

Through teeth gritted with effort, Casey answered, "If anyone was watching, it needed to look like I took advantage of the distraction. It explains how we both escape."

"Kind of a risky stunt."

"Not for me."

"Touché."

"Besides, I'd be of far more use to Fulcrum if I'm still in good with the agency."

Morland's grin was back.

"Shut up. I'm just keeping my options open. I haven't decided anything."

"I think you have. Go see Jennings tomorrow." Morland winked at his old partner. "See you in the funny pages."

The man deliberately lifted his arms above his head, allowing himself to drop out of the sleeves of his coat. He plummeted twenty-some feet to the ground, twisting around in midair. He bounced lightly off his feet and tucked into a pair of graceful shoulder rolls, neatly snatching his gun off the ground as he tumbled down the hill and into the woods.

Casey stood up, stupidly holding the empty jacket out with his left hand. Without really thinking about it, he reached into the coat pocket and retrieved his own gun.

He wondered about what he had just done. He shook himself out of it. There would be time for that later.

Dropping the jacket, he raced across the terrace, down a set of four wide stairs to the lower terrace and the railing of the corridor. Walker had clearly taken advantage of the distraction as well; she was finishing stashing the bodies of two agents in a back corner of the patio behind a table where they would be difficult to spot.

"Walker," he said into his mike.

She finished stashing the second body. She pushed her ear piece a little deeper into her ear. "Casey, where are you?"

"Look up."

She stood up and quickly located him through the tinted glass wall. She walked purposefully across the patio to the cutout, pulling her gun out of her holster and double-checking the ammo. "Where's Chuck?" she asked.

"Unknown," he said grimly.

"Chuck? Do you copy?"

There was no response.

Sarah reinserted the cartridge into her gun. "Call in the clean-up crew and we'll go find him. I'll be right up."

* * *

Chuck wondered how he would know whether his plan had worked. He didn't need to wait long. A sharp cry behind him gave him his answer.

He spun around, along with fifty or so pairs of eyes, to find the source of the sound. Plato stood in the door Chuck had used to enter the planetarium; the agent was struggling to pull the ear wick from his ear.

Chuck panicked. He ran for the opposite door. He reached it about the time that Plato finally removed the ear piece and shoved it into his pocket.

Plato shook his head to clear it before sprinting across the room, with fifty or so eyes watching his every step.

Outside, Chuck faked to his left as the door closed. After the door shut, he ran back to the right. To the left was a couple of escape routes that would hopefully keep Plato busy.

Partway around the narrow walkway, he stopped. Around the curve of the planetarium was the terrace where Casey had been. What if the agent was still there, but as a captive? Was he running towards more Fulcrum agents?

Chuck couldn't risk it.

To his right was a ladder of copper rungs built into the side of the dome. To his left was a three-story drop to the ground below.

He made a call. He took a deep breath at what he had to do next.

* * *

Plato pounded his shoulder into the heavy door leading out of the auditorium; the door opened, but his shoulder was the worse for it.

He was definitely getting irritated.

He had spotted Bartowski running left as the door shut, so he checked that way. A covered hall led back towards the main part of the observatory; it was deserted except for a small family. Nobody was looking around as if a man had just sprinted back into the building.

Something didn't feel right. Plato followed a walkway away from the planetarium and scanned the eastern terrace. Finding it vacant, he leaned over a wall to search the loading dock area below. He still didn't see Bartowski. There was no way he could have made it out of sight so quickly.

Plato jogged back the other way. The walkway went around the exterior of the building, but after he circled most of the way around, all he found was an empty terrace with Amafor's jacket sitting on the wall. That wasn't a good sign, but it would have to wait.

Again, he didn't think Bartowski could get out of sight that quickly. Where could he have gone?

A rare moment of calm air allowed him to hear a twig snap deep in the woods. He cursed. He really didn't want to go chasing Bartowski in the forest, but Fulcrum wouldn't look kindly on him if the agent got away, and he really preferred to stay in Fulcrum's good graces.

At the top of the curve of the walkway, he leaned over the edge. It was a two-story drop with a steep down slope upon landing, but nothing a trained agent couldn't handle. He gnashed his teeth.

He climbed atop the wide wall and tried to pick out a landing spot below.

* * *

Chuck looked down between his legs and saw Plato pass underneath him. He breathed a sigh of relief; he was fairly exposed where he stood. To be safe, he quietly took another step upwards, following Awesome's rock-climbing mantra of always keeping at least three of your hands and feet firmly set at all times.

He stole another peek downward when he heard footsteps. Plato had returned.

The man jerked and looked into the woods. He climbed up onto the wall.

A gust of wind flew over the top of the dome and buffeted Chuck's face. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip.

A follow-up gust cast his cap into the air.

He looked back down over his shoulder in horror. "Please don't notice, please don't notice, please don't notice," he mouthed quietly.

Whatever gods were listening ignored his pleas. Almost as if directed by a puppeteer, the cap curved in front of the man's face before floating to the ground far below.

Plato turned around and looked up. When he spotted his quarry, his face sprouted an evil grin. "Cute trick with the radio," he said.

Chuck laughed nervously at the compliment. "Well, Plato said it best: 'Necessity is the mother of invention.'"

"That's true. He also said, 'Astronomy compels the soul to look upwards and leads us from this world to another.' That seems particularly appropriate."

Plato pulled out his gun, pointing it at the sky before lowering it with slow precision.

"Ohboyohboyohboyohboy," Chuck nervously uttered. He took a futile step upwards, which only served to amuse the man below. There was nowhere for Chuck to go.

The aim of the gun shifted inevitably closer towards his body.

"Prepare to be led to another world."

* * *

Casey put his phone away; the clean-up crew was coming. He turned around and ran back up the four steps to the top terrace. He stopped after only a few more paces.

One hundred feet away, Bartowski stood on the wall, dark hair whipping in the breeze as he looked up at the dome. Except that Bartowski was lowering a gun with a definite purpose.

"What the…?!" he muttered.

Casey looked up to where the gun was pointing. The angle of the dome kept him from seeing the target.

He squinted. The man was wearing the same jacket as Chuck. His hair looked as wild as Chuck's. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: Chuck wouldn't be pointing a gun like that at anybody.

Out came Casey's gun, quickly steadied by both hands. Two shots whistled from the silencer.

Pfft. Pfft.

The man toppled backwards off the wall.

Behind him, Walker shouted, "Casey, what did you do?!"

Casey didn't need to turn around to know that Walker had her gun out. He raised his hands where she could see them, careful not to make sudden moves. Not with that kind of emotion in her voice.

"I took out a Fulcrum agent," he said calmly.

Clearly, she didn't believe him. She went around him and over to the side wall to look at the face-down body below. "You shot Chuck!"

"Walker," Casey said. "Bartowski is on top of the dome."

"His blue cap is right next to–"

"Sarah? Casey?"

Chuck's head peeked over the top of the planetarium. His wavy hair blew frenetically in the breeze as he took the last two steps up and set himself down at the crest. He fiddled with a device in his hands.

Walker looked back and forth between the corpse and Chuck. Finally, she looked at Casey. "How did … why is he … what the hell is he doing up there?" she spluttered.

Casey shrugged. "Don't get ticked at me. I didn't put him there."

Bartowski's voice was suddenly in their ears. "I don't know which one of you got him, but thank you." There was a long pause as an intake of breath was clearly audible. "From the bottom of my heart, thank you."

Casey put his arms down and turned to his partner. Realizing the truth, the anger and emotion fled from her face, replaced by a grateful smile.

For some reason Casey couldn't pinpoint, that meant a lot to him.


	26. Cleanup and Covers

_Chapters 25-27 went up together. Be sure to jump back if you haven't read 25..._

**

* * *

**

Scene XLVIII – Griffith Observatory

A large garbage truck lumbered up the hill towards the observatory parking lot. The truck was cut off by a set of orange cones, set up around the curve and out of view of the parking lot. A pair of official-looking men with irritated expressions stood in front of the barrier, one of them holding his hand up to indicate the truck should stop.

The driver of the truck looked confused, but obligingly stopped. After pressing the parking brake into place with his foot, he opened his door and hopped down, leaving the engine idling. "What's going on? I gotta grab the trash."

The two men carefully eyed the driver. The man who had signaled the truck to stop said, "There are some bigwigs going through the observatory right now. Nobody gets in for at least an hour."

"C'mon, I'm just collecting trash here. This is the last stop and I can call it a day. I don't want to sit here for an hour. Let me do my job so I can go home."

The other guard said, "Sorry, nobody gets in or out."

"Aw, man, you're killing me here."

Pfft. Pfft.

The two guards dropped to the ground, taken out by precision shots through a slit in the bed of the truck. Within twenty seconds, the bodies and the cones were stashed.

The driver retook his seat in the cab. As the truck lurched forward, he pressed a button and dialed a number on his cell. "First stop complete," he said. "Two taken." He hung up.

As the truck came around the final turn, a black SUV came racing up behind them. Both men in the garbage truck instinctively expected trouble; they kept a close eye on the occupants as the truck struggled through the parking lot.

* * *

Casey put his phone away as he and Sarah walked closer to the planetarium dome. "Break's over Bartowski," he said into the mike.

"I know, I know." Chuck sighed. All he wanted to do was sit there: the view was incredible, and the aftermath of the excitement left him feeling exhausted. "How do we stand?"

"Two agents down in the corridor. Plato down on the ground. Amafor escaped into the woods."

"Amafor escaped?" Walker asked.

Casey's look silenced any follow-up questions. His eyes bored into her as he added, "The clean-up crew just took out two guards in the front of the parking lot. That accounts for six."

Sarah said, "Plato said they had eight agents to our three."

Chuck pivoted around to look at the Hollywood sign. He wanted to take in as much of the view as he could before he was forced to climb down. "The only other group that checked in on the radio were in the security room," he noted. "The room's on the first floor, in the back corner."

"Makes sense," Sarah said. "They'd want to scrub the video and keep an eye on things."

"I'm on it," Casey said, a bit too hastily. "You keep things under control here. People tend to get squeamish if they see a dead body." He took off.

Sarah stared after him, clearly confused that he would run off alone with two agents unaccounted for. She was quickly distracted.

"Um, Sarah?" Chuck called down to her. "I think we've got a problem."

"What now?"

Chuck had pivoted again. Out in the parking lot, the black SUV pulled in next to their car. Out came a man and woman. The woman spread her arms in disbelief while checking the license plate.

Chuck shook his head in disbelief. He recognized the SUV and the body language. "Ellie and Awesome are in the parking lot."

* * *

Casey found the nearest stairwell. He raced down the steps as if his life depended on it.

It might. He needed to make sure that he controlled the video of his conversation with Morland; he wasn't sure what was on it. That meant getting to the monitoring station without Walker or Bartowski around.

Dashing across the exhibit floor, he paused only briefly when he reached the security room door to listen. He couldn't hear anything.

He shouldered open the door, gun drawn. Inside, he found the two men duct-taped to an office chair, one sitting in the other's lap, gags in both mouths. Two security guards had guns trained on the men.

"Who are you?" the black guard asked.

"Never mind that; who are you?"

"Call me Clarence."

"Well, Clarence, did you do this?"

The man laughed. "Not us. The other security guard did."

"What other security guard?"

Clarence's face became puzzled. "Didn't he find you? How else would you have known to come down here?"

A sinking sensation overtook Casey. He quickly moved over to the monitoring station and located the camera where he'd had the conversation with Morland. Working the controls, he tried to rewind the video.

He couldn't. It quickly became apparent why.

Somebody had taken the disc.

His face whitened. Somebody had the video of his conversation with Morland. That wasn't good, especially since he had no idea who it was.

He was suddenly in a very bad mood.

Something occurred to him: the terrace camera didn't show Chuck or Sarah.

His eyes jumped from monitor to monitor. He found Walker and Bartowski; he burst into a grin.

Casey suddenly had a way to vent his bad mood. "Clarence, you're in charge." He took off without another word.

Clarence just shook his head. At some point, somebody had better stop and explain to him what was going on.

* * *

Sarah was waiting for Chuck at the bottom of the ladder. "Why are Ellie and Awesome here?!" Sarah asked.

Chuck had thought about the puzzle during his descent. He had considered the blanks, placed "Hang-man" style on the clue sheet to help the scavenger hunt participants figure out the solution. "It's here," he said.

"What's here?"

"The scavenger hunt trophy. It's here somewhere. The solution is three words. The first is 'Griffith', and the second is 'Observatory'. It fits: the letters we've found, the number of letters in the words, everything."

"So where is it?"

"I don't know. The last word must give the specific location, but it's only three letters long, and I haven't figured out what the letters are. We can't even be sure that we have them."

"OK, so what's a three-letter word having to do with the sky? 'Sun'?"

He frowned. "No, that could be too many places at an observatory. Maybe…" His eyes lit up. "It was right there!"

"It was right where?"

"Come with me," he ordered, taking off back across the terrace. She sprinted after him, quickly catching up and matching his pace.

Chuck excitedly explained along the way. "The Gottlieb Transit corridor shows how the sun and the moon and the stars are tied to the calendar."

"So the answer is 'sun'."

"Nope." He paused as the pair leapt down the short four-step staircase. "The line down the middle of the corridor is supposed to represent a meridian. There's a lens that focuses the light of the sun along the line, which would be really cool if it wasn't so cloudy out."

The two descended a short set of steps, then turned and went down the longer set where Sarah had beaten the two Fulcrum agents.

When they hit the floor of the corridor, she prompted, "So?"

As they ran, he said, "So, look at what's at the other end."

She stared ahead. "All I see is a sculpture."

"That's right," he said as the two pulled up, "it's a sculpture of an 'arc'."

It was, in fact, a 13-foot high, 18-foot long bronze-faced arc mounted in the concrete. Inscriptions along the arc indicated dates, seasonal indicators, even constellations.

Sarah ran her fingers along the markings. "So, what, do we look at today's date? Or is there another clue?"

"You're thinking too hard." He knelt down, reaching down into the long, wide groove beneath the arc and carefully picking up an object covered in grey cloth nearly the color of the concrete. A piece of paper underneath rustled as he removed the object.

It was the stone trophy, with "D.A.S.H." etched on the top and the names of past winners inscribed on the side.

She looked down at the trophy in his hand, and then burst out laughing. He joined in, his face erupting into a joyful smile.

Their laughter grew; Sarah jumped into Chuck's arms and threw her arms around his neck, holding him tight. And although neither one of them could have explained exactly how it happened, they suddenly and naturally found themselves kissing each other – a happy and joyful kiss celebrating the moment and being together.

They separated, staring at each other with huge, stupid grins on their faces.

"I knew it!"

Both of them turned with a start. Casey was standing fifteen paces away, pointing his finger at the two of them. A victorious smile covered his face. "I knew you two were fraternizing behind my back!" He took several steps towards them, his glee apparent.

Chuck's face was borderline stunned, but Sarah reacted instantly. "Casey, would you get out of here?!" she demanded with an anxious look around.

Casey's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What?!"

Sarah pointed at the trophy. "Remember the scavenger hunt? This place is about to be crawling with Devon and Ellie and Morgan and a lot of other people you know. How the heck are we going to explain you being here?!"

The NSA agent had a confused look on his face. "The scavenger hunt? So, what, that kiss was…"

"…part of our cover, Casey," Sarah finished for him.

Chuck recovered quickly. "Wow, have I really gotten good enough at this stuff to fool you?"

Casey's face scrunched. "Well, no, but…"

"I'll take that as a compliment, Casey, but would you get out of here before–"

"Chuck! Sarah!" a female voice called out.

The three turned. Devon and Ellie were running down the stairs. They ran down the corridor to meet the group.

"Now look what you've done," Chuck muttered.

Casey shot back an evil look.

Devon and Ellie pulled up, a look of dismay on their faces. "Darn it, Chuckster," Devon said, "we had over an hour head start on you this morning!"

Ellie chimed in, "Yeah, how the heck did you beat us?"

Chuck grinned. "What can I say? I had a terrific partner." He shared the grin with Sarah, who beamed back at him.

Devon's eyes narrowed. "Wait. What is John doing here? He didn't help you, did he?"

The four looked over at Casey. He hesitated a touch too long before responding. "No, I didn't help them at all. I just happened to be here. I … love the observatory." The last part was delivered through slightly gritted teeth; only Sarah and Chuck picked up on it.

Devon's face lit up with delight. "Me, too, bro. We'll have to come here some time. Hey – I hear next week, the Big Dipper will be ascending towards Uranus."

Chuck could almost hear Casey's internalized groan. "I'm busy," the NSA agent replied.

"It lasts a whole week. Each night there's a show that last two hours."

"Definitely busy."

"All right. But c'mon, be honest: John didn't help you guys? What are the odds of two groups of people randomly being in the same place like this?"

Chuck gazed back behind Ellie and Devon. Two NSA support team members clad in gray jumpsuits were coming down the stairs, preparing to smuggle the bodies of the Fulcrum agents, dead or alive, away from the observatory.

He looked Devon square in the eye and said, "You know, Devon, you might be surprised."


	27. Picnic

_Chapters 25-27 went up together. Be sure to start with 25 if you haven't read it yet..._

**

* * *

**

Scene XLIX – Griffith Park Observatory

"Are you sure you won't join us, John?" Ellie asked. "There'll be plenty of food."

"No, thanks. I've got a few errands, but then I'm done for today and heading home." He gave a meaningful glance to Chuck and Sarah. "I'll see you tomorrow morning?" he asked Chuck

"Bright and early. Can't wait."

Casey grunted. After he gave the group what, for him, amounted to a friendly smile, he turned and walked back inside without another word.

"Well, we're heading over to the picnic area," Devon said.

"Wait, how can you know where it is? There's a clue to solve."

"We've got the grill, chairs and coolers in the back of the truck. We need to get there ASAP. Griff gave us a sealed envelope with the location." He pulled it out of his back pocket and made a big show of ripping it open.

Chuck's eyes narrowed. "What if you guys had finished later than everyone else?"

Devon laughed and clapped Chuck on the shoulder. "Funny, big guy. Funny."

Ellie looked at Sarah a bit coolly. "So we'll see you over there?"

The blonde smiled back cheerfully. "Absolutely."

The way Sarah answered seemed to thaw things a little. Ellie's smile grew; she took Devon by the hand as the pair turned to head back for the parking lot.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Chuck sighed. "I feel terrible."

Sarah bumped up against him. "I know you do. There wasn't any help for it. Besides, in the end, it served a good purpose: your cover is intact, which means your life is still yours."

"Yeah, what isn't spoken for by the government or the Buy More. I never cheated at anything in my life. Have you?"

Her look answered his question.

"I mean, in the days before you were with the CIA."

Her look became even more guilty, but once again answered his question.

"Really. I never would have thought that about you."

"Well, some of our pasts are a little more … colorful … than others."

"You'll have to tell me about it." He saw her expression fall. "Someday."

It was obvious that she didn't even want to commit to that. She tried to change the subject. "Well, at least there's one more clue to solve."

He smiled at her and fished the clue sheet from his jacket pocket.

**After you're done, come join the party!**

**The sea is reversed. SS Itari is  
mixed up and blind.  
38-22-23/56-10-11**

**Don't wander far.**

"I can't believe there's even a clue for the picnic location."

"Griff went all out this year." He stared at the puzzle. "'The sea is reversed.' 'Sea the'?" he asked.

"'The SS Itari is mixed up and blind.' Well, if you're blind, you have no eyes. No I's."

"That's good. That leaves us 'S', 'S', 'T', 'A', 'R'. Stars.

"See the stars."

"Well, we're at an observatory."

They looked at each other. "A telescope," they both said in unison.

Checking a nearby map of the complex, they jogged to a nearby low-power public telescope. "The numbers must be coordinates," he said as they approached. Laughing, she easily beat him to the telescope.

He read off the coordinates and she punched then in.

Sarah peered through the eyepiece as the telescope rotated from its starting position pointed towards downtown. The telescope rotated across a billboard with Michael J. Fox, the Hollywood sign, and up into the hills above the observatory.

Sure enough, high on a bluff stood Griff, setting up for the picnic. She stood up and smiled, allowing Chuck to bend over and take a look.

"Nice!" Chuck exclaimed appreciatively.

"Looks like there's a path leading up the hill."

He offered up his hand. "Why don't we take a walk?"

"Why don't we." She smiled fondly at Chuck.

The two walked hand-and-hand across the parking lot, stopping off only long enough for Sarah and Chuck to discard their spy equipment into the trunk of Ellie's car. They strolled up the path with fingers interlinked; they paused occasionally to take in the Hollywood sign and the city in the distance, and to enjoy a little well-deserved normalcy.

* * *

The location of the picnic site was inspired: the participants were able to watch the other contestants pull into the observatory parking lot below and race down into the exhibit, only to find only a sheet of paper informing them that they had found the trophy's resting place. Whenever a team finally configured the telescope to point up the hill, the group waved their arms over their heads and screamed in celebration.

Friends and family trickled into the finish area. Beer and brats and burgers and spiked hot chocolate awaited the tired but generally happy contestants. As the hidden sun dipped towards the horizon, the group tended to huddle a little closer to Devon's grill. Soon, the only teams missing were a pair of Devon's frat brothers and Jeff and Lester.

Chuck and Sarah stood looking down over the parking lot when Ellie walked up. "Hey, Chuck, would you mind if I talked to Sarah for a minute?"

Chuck wasn't able to conceal his surprise. He glanced at both women; unable to learn anything, he shrugged. "Sure. I'll go move the car, I guess. Don't want to walk back down the trail in the dark."

"Sounds good."

"Be back in a few." Chuck turned and headed down the hill.

Sarah turned towards the brunette, obviously waiting to see what she wanted to say.

"So, are we OK?" Ellie asked bluntly.

Sarah was confused by the question. "I guess that depends," she replied slowly.

"On?"

She suddenly realized what she needed to do. "On whether you'll accept my apology."

The slightest hint of a smile told Sarah she had finally hit upon a right answer with Ellie. Suddenly words were rushing out of Sarah's mouth. "You probably figured out that I'm not the most open person, and this morning, I said all the wrong things. I'm sorry about that. I guess I'm just not used to having people around that care that much about me … or my boyfriend."

"Dated the wrong guys, huh."

Sarah smiled wryly, picturing how Ellie would react if she found out about Bryce. "Something like that."

"Pfff. I've been there. Luckily, I found Devon. Med school wasn't really the right time or place to fall in love, but you can't really choose that, can you."

Sarah's smile faded a bit as the remark hit a little too close to home. "No, I guess you can't," she said thoughtfully.

"Even if the situation isn't perfect, you just need to fight through it." She looked over at her larger-than-life fiancé as he manned the grill. "I gave up a few things, but I don't regret any of them. If you don't hold on with both hands, the opportunity of your life can pass you by before you know it." The look she gave Sarah drove her point home.

Sarah was saved from having to come up with a safe response by a ringing in her pocket. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and saw that it was Director Graham. "Sorry," she said. "I should probably get this."

"No problem. I need to go warm up anyway." She left Sarah with a friendly smile.

Sarah walked a few paces away from the group to the edge of the hill. "Walker here." She deliberately omitted the 'secure' given the people around her.

"Agent Walker," Graham said. "Be advised that the Los Mellizos henchmen escaped our custody earlier today.

It was all Sarah could do to avoid exclaiming, "What?!" into her phone. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to remain silent.

Graham continued, "Their whereabouts are currently unknown. Exercise extreme caution until their location can be ascertained."

"Understood."

-click-

A terrifying thought occurred to Sarah. As calmly as she could, she walked over to Morgan, who was looking down at the observatory through Devon's binoculars. "Can I borrow those for a second?"

"Well, I was just going to…"

"Morgan! Brat's up!" Devon called.

Morgan's eyes widened. He shoved the binoculars into her hand. "Here you go," he said gleefully before he dashed off to get his food.

She took a deep breath and raised the binoculars to her eyes. She scanned down the path, searching for Chuck. It was much quicker to go down the hill; Chuck was already walking across the parking lot towards Ellie's car.

Down below, Chuck reached into his pocket, head down, and fumbled to remove his keys. Giving a small yank, the keys escaped with a cheerful jingle; he located the fob and pushed the button to unlock the doors. He hopped into the car. After setting his phone on the center console, he put the key into the ignition and started the engine.

The passenger side door opened and the Hispanic man Chuck had seen chasing Sarah dropped into the seat. He pointed his gun at Chuck.

His companion climbed into the back seat. "What's your name?" she greeted him. Her voice had a slight Spanish accent and a sinister edge.

Eyes wide, he raised his hands above his head as best he could in the cramped car. "I'm Chuck."

"Well, Chuck, did you enjoy your afternoon with Agent Walker? You two make the cutest couple."

His phone rang. A picture of Sarah appeared on the monitor.

The Los Mellizos henchmen shared an evil look as they recognized the image. The woman picked up the phone.

"Agent Walker. So nice to talk to you again."

"If you do anything…"

"What? You will do what. You will take us somewhere and torture us? Paybacks can be a real bitch."

"So can I."

"I told you I would be back, Agent Walker. Seems like we found somebody that you care about, just like I promised you I would."

"You have no idea who you're messing with."

Elsa laughed. "Do you think I care? We need to go now. We are going to take Chuck somewhere nice and private to have a little chat with him, the same type you enjoyed with us. Maybe he will even be alive when we call and tell you where to meet us."

-click-

The hand with the phone dropped from Sarah's ear to hang limply at her side. The stinging wind swept her blond hair back, but it wasn't to blame for the wetness in her brilliant blue eyes.

Down below, the taillights of Ellie's car lit as the Los Mellizos henchmen prepared to take Chuck away from her, possibly for good.

When an agent's guard drops, bad things happen. A single moment of distraction can make all the difference.


	28. For You

**Scene L – Griffith Park Observatory**

From the bluff, Sarah watched helplessly as the sedan backed out of its space and slowly headed for the parking lot exit. She thought she saw Chuck forlornly glance in her direction, but it might have been her imagination.

Behind her, a cheer erupted from the group. The last of Devon's frat buddies pulled up, sheepish looks on their faces as they tried to determine whether they were the last to arrive. Devon was slyly trying to convince them that they were.

Sarah took advantage of the distraction; she dropped the binoculars and took off down the hill.

Sprinting down the steep brush-covered hill was dangerous, but right now, so was Sarah. Her focus was on one thing and one thing only: finding Chuck before the Los Mellizos henchmen could hurt him even a little.

She made the descent to the parking lot in less than two minutes, but it felt like an hour. As she descended the last dozen steps, she picked out her target. An observatory parking lot wasn't the best place to shop for fast cars, but she found a respectable option in a red Audi TT coupe.

Not caring whether anyone above or below was watching, she bee-lined for the car. A universal key-set was cleverly concealed in a fob on her key ring; it leapt into her hand as she approached the car.

Key in lock.

Open door.

Sit.

Key in ignition.

Start engine.

Drive.

Her tires peeled as she raced out of the parking lot. The car was quickly twisting through the hills at high speed.

She barely thought about driving. She was too occupied trying to assess her situation.

She had two things and two things only going for her. The first was that, with Ellie's car, they weren't going to make great time to wherever they were going.

The second was that she still had Lester and Jeff's GPS device in her jacket pocket.

She pulled out the device and a cord from a pocket in her jacket. She plugged the device into her phone. She touched the screen a time or two; her iPhone pulled up a map of Los Angeles and located Ellie's sedan. They were currently heading north, and had a decent head start on her.

Sensing something amiss, she looked up. A couple walking their shaggy dog blocked the center of the road; they froze in her rapidly approaching headlights.

Sarah dropped the phone and swerved around the stunned trio. None of them moved so much as an inch, except for their hair blowing in the breeze from the car's close passing.

She quickly retrieved her phone and studied the map. The park was a veritable tangle of roads winding through the hills. If it wasn't for the GPS device, she wouldn't have stood any chance of finding Chuck.

As it was, she had trouble focusing on what she needed to do. She pictured the things she had done during her interrogation, and the gleeful joy the henchmen would take in doing the exact same thing to Chuck. She envisioned him strapped to a chair with the pair taking out their revenge – their revenge on her – on Chuck's body.

She bit back the urge to scream as her fingers tightened around the wheel. Determined to close the gap before they exited the park, Sarah slammed the car into a higher gear, pushing the bounds of safety further on each successive curve.

* * *

"What do you mean, you don't know where you are going?" Elsa screeched at Chuck.

Chuck fought to remain calm. "I don't know this park. I don't spend any time here."

"I'm warning you…" Alejandro put his gun to Chuck's temple.

"I'm telling you: I have no idea which way is the fastest way out. This park is a maze."

Chuck was telling the truth – for the most part. He had taken a left instead of a right when they came to the end of the road leaving from the observatory, knowing that would lead further into the park. Now, however, he was just as clueless as the henchmen.

They came to a T in the road; he brought the car to a stop. He shrugged. "Which way do you want me to go?"

Signs in front of them named the roads. To the right was Mount Hollywood Drive. To the left was Griffith Park Road. There were no helpful signs hinting at which way led out of the park. Frustrated, the man ordered, "Just go that way," pointing to the left. Chuck obliged, rolling the car out onto the new road.

The two henchmen started bickering in Spanish, the woman apparently disagreeing strongly with the choice in direction. Her tone became more acerbic as the road climbed higher, perched above a ravine that fell off to the right. Chuck allowed himself a private smile; heading uphill suggested that they were heading further into the park.

The road straightened and crossed a long meadow. He found himself checking the rearview mirror over and over again, praying to see another pair of headlights appear in the distance.

This time, his prayers were answered. Fast-approaching headlights closed the gap. "Sarah," he whispered under his breath. It had to be. She'd get him out of this mess, as she had so many others.

He tried to focus on the road, but couldn't help peeking at the mirror. The car approached faster and faster on the long stretch of straight road. He kept waiting for the car to slow down or swerve to the side so she could put her gun to good use.

Then he realized that her gun was in the trunk. That meant her only weapon was…

The sound of Sarah's engine became very apparent. The two henchmen turned around to look, just in time to see the approaching red Audi.

The Audi rammed the Riptide.

The three passengers jerked forward. Cursing, the henchmen recovered. Alejandro undid his seatbelt, rolled down the window, and leaned out. He emptied several rounds from his gun. Elsa was more direct, removing her seat belt and kneeling on the seat as she shot through the back window.

"Ahhh!" Chuck screamed, distressed by the noise and the collateral damage to his sister's car – not to mention the bullets flying at Sarah.

"Shut up!" Alejandro yelled. More rounds were emptied in Sarah's direction; she swerved to make herself a tougher target. Chuck subtly shifted the car a time or two, hoping to throw their aim off the slightest bit.

While Alejandro fired back at Sarah, Elsa slipped down in the seat and grabbed Chuck's phone. She scrolled through the received calls and dialed Sarah's number.

Sarah picked up. "Calling to surrender? Good decision."

"Back off now or he dies."

"I'll knock you off the road," she bluffed. "I'll take a two-for-one trade."

"I don't think so. Back off, or I fire a bullet into his head. Then the two of us will focus on you. Best you get is a one-for-two – and I'm pretty sure the two of us will take you down."

"You take him out and there's nobody driving. How long would that chase last?"

"Fair enough. How about this? Pull over and surrender now, or I find creative places to shoot Chuck until he stops the car. Then I shoot him in the head. Then the three of us can fight things out." She cocked her weapon near the phone for emphasis.

"If I surrender," Sarah said, "you'll have both of us. Why would I do that?"

"Because you are the same as me. You will not risk hurting this man, not for anything."

Chuck's eyes widened, wondering at Elsa's meaning. Did she know he was the Intersect? Or was she referring to something more?

Elsa leaned forward, as if she wanted Chuck to hear every word. "Agent Walker, remember how you told me how there are consequences for a 'mistake'? Well, here is your consequence: if you do not surrender, he suffers, then dies. The only ray of hope for you is if you surrender and some miracle happens. And you will surrender, praying for that miracle, just as I would in your shoes. You will give yourself up for that slimmest of chances. I can hear it in your voice."

Chuck found himself frightened that Sarah would do just that. The speaker on his phone wasn't great, but he could tell when she was silent, and she was silent a long, long time.

They came to the edge of the meadow and started up another of the nondescript hills. With an oily smirk, Elsa asked Chuck, "Would you like to say goodbye?" She put the phone to his ear.

"Sarah?" he said with more than a trace of fear.

"I'm here, Chuck." Her eyes were pools, welling with tears threatening to escape.

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Just remember, you would have done the same for me."

Her face turned confused. "What was that?" she asked.

"What was that?" the Los Mellizos henchmen asked in unison.

There were two end games that he could see. If he did nothing, both of them would end up prisoners of Los Mellizos. Not only would the Fulcrum allies have the Intersect, but Sarah would suffer torment at their hands because he had been caught, because he had made a mistake. Every bit of that situation was unacceptable.

That left only had one option. Chuck's face became determined. "Two-for-one," he whispered under his breath. "For you, Sarah."

The road went left. He jerked the wheel to the right.

The car went off the road and started tumbling down the steep hill.


	29. Roll, 'Tide, Roll

_Four of the usual suspects deserve thanks for beta-reads: Arathorn, Go-Chuck-Go, kayla101blue and nattylovesjordy._

_All mistakes are my own, probably from trying to combine so much good advice at once..._

* * *

**Scene LI – Griffith Park, Road**

A mind goes strange places when you're about to die.

Chuck found himself thinking about, of all things, a Japanese game show.

Long before Sarah Walker made her first appearance at the Buy More, he and Morgan had stumbled across the program while flipping through the higher channels late one Friday night. They had watched with glee as the show somehow convinced contestants to shove themselves into metal trash cans and roll down a hill. The contestants were miked; the flimsy aluminum made a horrible racket as gravity did its work, mercilessly spinning the trash cans and their hapless occupants.

Rolling down a hill in a car was much like that, cacophonic noise and all. The difference was that every quarter roll or so, it felt like somebody took a giant hammer and smashed the car with a bone-crunching, teeth-clattering blow.

The game show in his mind disappeared, replaced with a kaleidoscope of oddly skewed images of tall grass, evergreen trees, and the cheap interior of the car. The hammer would smash the car, the image would change, and his neck or ribs or feet would snap or strain or flop about helplessly. A millisecond later, the seemingly infinite loop would begin anew.

Lather, rinse, repeat – the car tumbled endlessly down the hill.

Throughout it all, Chuck was strangely at peace. The Los Mellizos henchmen were getting it worse than he was, and somewhere above him on the road, Sarah was safe.

Sarah was safe.

The car left the ground. The stranger with the hammer took a particularly good whack at the car. Blackness overtook him.

* * *

Sarah brought the car to a halt at the spot where the Riptide had surreally missed the turn. She almost wondered if she had imagined it. From her vantage, she could see nothing to indicate that the car had really gone off the road.

The fading din of mangling metal disabused her of that notion.

She yanked on the emergency brake. In her haste to exit the Audi, she dropped the clutch. The car stalled and tried to follow the Riptide down the hill, leaping forward a few inches before the emergency brake could take hold.

Sarah made it to the edge of the road in time to look down the hill and see the car pop into the air, spinning door-over-door until meeting a gloriously stout pine tree. The tree bent and gave serious thought to snapping off near the base of its trunk, but held. The car's momentum was blunted as it was forced to pivot around the tree before crashing back to the ground, sliding the last thirty feet to the bottom of the hill on its roof and coming to a rest in a clearing near a dry creek bed.

"CHUCK!!!" she heard herself scream.

In an instant, she plotted her entire path down the hill. She threw herself into the ravine, dashing down the hill at a breakneck pace. Patches of thick brush grabbed at her feet. She quickly found herself panting from the exertion; her chest was tight with concern for Chuck, and the tightness made it difficult to breathe.

Sarah stopped a dozen feet from the car; she stared at the wreck in horror. The Riptide was a crumpled shadow of its former self, stripped of a fair bit of its paint and glass and any dignity it once had. The car was in the last throes of automotive death spasms: three of the now-unbalanced tires spun at different speeds while, deep within the engine block, compressed air hissed as it left the engine block. The Riptide had struggled through its last mile.

As the wheels slowed to a stop and the hissing diminished to an erratic set of last gasps, the dim clearing became eerily silent. Naked brown branches in the surrounding trees pointed towards the wreck like emaciated arms, their bony fingers waving in the breeze.

There was no sign of any movement inside the car.

The agent inside Sarah warned that she should ensure the Los Mellizos henchmen were secured. The woman inside her insisted that she go to Chuck.

It wasn't close. Sarah ran to the driver's side.

She knelt on the ground and bent over to peek through the window. Chuck's seat belt suspended him upside-down; his arms hung limply above his head. A trickle of blood ran into his hair from a cut in the center of a wicked-looking bruise on his temple.

"Chuck? Chuck?!"

He didn't move.

She stood up and pulled at the door. The weight of the car had sunk it a few inches into the ground, so the top of the door caught on dirt and underbrush. Sarah desperately yanked at the door several times; the earth finally yielded and the door swung open.

She knelt down again. Chuck was still as death.

"No, no, no, NO!" She checked for a pulse in his near wrist; it was there, but she couldn't tell how strong it was.

One of her knives escaped her lower back sheath and was quickly cutting him loose. She only realized her mistake when the seat belt gave and she could only slow his fall to the roof of the car.

Chuck really didn't seem to mind. Neither did Alejandro, whose battered and broken body lay below the front seats and helped to cushion Chuck's fall.

She pulled him out of the car and away from the wreckage by his arm pits. Sarah had an irrational need to get him away from the people who had threatened to hurt him and inadvertently succeeded. So irrational was her need that she lost her focus and her balance on the third pull. She tumbled backwards into a sitting position; Chuck's head landed in a pile of brown leaves and sticks in front of her. A small cry escaped her lips.

She scooted over to him and propped him up, sliding underneath him so she could pillow his head in her lap. He was so still, so very still.

"How could you pull a stunt like that?" she cried. "You're the Intersect! You're too important!"

He didn't respond.

She stared down at his face. It was so peaceful, with just the slightest hint of a smile. She brushed some bangs away, carefully avoiding his injury as she set strands of hair into their proper places. The familiar gesture comforted her only briefly; her sad expression quickly returned. "You're too important to me," she whispered intently.

A small sound rolled from the back of Chuck's throat, only to be muffled in his closed mouth. As if confused, his tongue slipped through to explore, licking his lips. Content with what it found, he seemed to decide it was OK for him to open his mouth, and his eyes as well.

His eyes took a moment to focus. "Sarah?" he asked hoarsely.

She nodded, afraid to speak.

He cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

She half laughed, half sobbed, "Am I all right? My trip down the hill was a little easier than yours."

He moved gingerly, adjusting his back to try to get comfortable. "Best in-class rollover protection," he said with a wry grin. "Guess Consumer Reports wasn't kidding."

Sarah laughed the giddy laugh of a woman who had feared she had lost everything, only to unexpectedly be handed another chance. Her face broke into a smile that threatened to tear her cheeks asunder. She stared into the pools of his eyes. The cloudy sky at the top of clearing reflected in them, highlighting her silhouette in white.

Her fingers gently explored his face, something that she really had never had a chance to do and, but for a fair bit of luck, never would have. She marveled at the warmth of his skin.

Chuck stared back up at her, watching her with a strangely tender smile. Normally she found herself utterly self-conscious when she caught him looking at her that way, but at the moment, she found it didn't bother her so much.

She wanted to sit there forever, but a groan from the car brought her back to reality. Involuntarily, she looked over before quickly looking back.

Chuck's eyes followed hers. "I know," he said. "It's OK. Go."

Her agonized frown turned into a grateful smile. Still, she wanted to say something. She needed to say something.

The words came of their own accord. "Chuck, I promise you: the job won't always come first."

His beautiful smile almost eclipsed the nervousness she felt. She hadn't made a promise to anyone in a long time, and she hadn't meant to make one to Chuck. Promises weren't a luxury an agent could afford; they were broken far too easily. Still, the fluttering in her heart when his smile grew made her glad that she did.

She silently vowed to find a way to keep this promise.

A mercenary groaned again. Sarah gently shifted out from under Chuck, lowering his head carefully to the ground. She dropped to one knee so she could kiss his unblemished temple; his eyes closed gently as her lips pressed to his forehead.

Her smile assured him that she would be back as soon as she could. She hopped to her feet and picked up her knife, just in case. Her shoes rustled through dead leaves as she strode to the other side of the car.

Focused on checking the largely unconscious henchmen, she didn't see his smile turn bittersweet. "Yes, it will," he said softly, sadly, to her retreating figure.

* * *

"Well, this is a fine mess."

Bartowski stared at Casey in disbelief from where he sat on the clearing floor. A medic finished work on the wound on his forehead while other members of the clean-up team tried to figure out what to do with the wreck and the Los Mellizos henchmen. "No, really Casey, I'm fine."

"Jesus, Bartowski, if not for sheer dumb luck–"

A look from Walker cut him off. Clearly, she wasn't going to tolerate his usual routine, and he supposed she had something of a point. Bartowski had put himself on the line twice that day. Still, this wasn't the end of the discussion; not as far as he was concerned.

The medic handed a cold pack to Bartowski. "Keep this on your head for twenty minutes. As often as you can for the rest of the night, apply cold to the bruise in twenty minute increments, with at least twenty minutes off between treatments."

"OK."

"You'll have a nasty looking bruise for a couple of days, and your rib cage is probably going to hurt like hell where you were thrown against the seat belt. I've given you a shot that will help with the pain over the short term; when that wears off, go with acetaminophen."

"No anticoagulants. Got it."

The medic looked a little surprised. "Sister's a doctor," Bartowski said deprecatingly.

The man nodded. "If you'll excuse me, your passengers aren't in as good a shape as you are."

"Thanks," Bartowski said. He put the cold pack into place as the medic packed his bag.

The man wasn't exaggerating. The Los Mellizos henchmen were strapped onto gurneys and were barely moving. Without seat belts to protect them, their bodies had taken a terrible pounding.

"Are they going to make it?" Bartowski asked.

"Probably," Casey replied. "They both have internal bleeding and a bunch of broken bones, but their condition is serious, not critical."

Relief flooded onto Bartowski's face; he clearly didn't like the idea of killing anyone. "What a day."

"It's not over yet. There's the small matter of you nearly killing yourself for no good reason."

"There was perfectly good reason. It was our only move."

Walker said, "This isn't a game, Chuck. You're more important than both of us put together."

His eyes narrowed at the statement. "Let's say you're right and I am as valuable as you two keep insisting I am. On a chess board, that would make me, what? A queen?"

"Seems about right," Casey said wryly. Walker shot him a dirty look.

Bartowski said, "Well, if you know you're going to lose your queen, you don't just go ahead and throw away a knight. You don't let your opponent take other pieces as you futilely try to find a way to save the queen. You sacrifice your queen, especially if you can find a way to take out a couple of enemy pieces along the way."

Walker's face showed how strongly she disagreed. "Chuck, you're the Intersect. It's worth sacrificing the life of an agent or two even for just a chance to get you free, no matter how slim."

"You're one of the CIA's top agents, Sarah. You're a powerful piece in your own right. That's not a sacrifice worth making. I was done. I was pinned. I was forked."

Casey interjected, "If you don't drop the chess analogy, you really will be 'forked'."

Bartowski ignored him. "The only way out was to do something unexpected, something rash. They had their seat belts off, so they were effectively out of commission as soon as the car left the road. Odds of me getting seriously hurt were low."

"Unless a branch came through a window, or a tree trunk caved in the driver's door. Or if they just shot you."

At the last, Bartowski's face went ashen. "I hadn't considered that," he admitted. "Still, you can't tell me that those odds didn't make sense. Two bad guys gone. One great agent saved, and a pretty good chance I'd be fine as well. You'd take those odds in a heartbeat, Casey."

"I'm not the Intersect."

"You took those odds with the Intersect. Remember the jump off the hotel balcony into the pool, with the two of us strapped together? I'll certainly never forget it."

Casey refused to admit anything, not to Bartowski.

Hard brown eyes fixed on the agent. "Fine. Tell me that the CIA or the NSA wouldn't take me out if I fell into the wrong hands and they thought the chance of rescue was slim. All I did was the exact same thing: I wasn't going to fall into the hands of the bad guys. I think I should be commended for that."

Casey couldn't deny that logic, especially since the NSA had long talked of the exit strategy for Operation Bartowski being a single well-placed bullet. It suddenly seemed very unfair that Chuck, who had never asked for any of this, had turned into somebody who could put his life on the line twice in one day only to have an agent like Casey take his life in the end.

A loud noise behind the group saved Casey from having to respond. A large truck worked to pull the wrecked Riptide into its bed with a winch and cable, and the car screeched like an angry child that didn't want to leave his mother.

"Oh, Ellie's car," Bartowski groaned. "She's gonna kill me." Another screech elicited another moan.

Walker said, "Well, we'll have to do something about that."

She pulled out her cell phone, scrolled through her address book and picked a number. She put the phone to her ear and waited patiently for somebody to pick up.

"Agent Walker here. I need a replacement vehicle ASAP." She paused. "A 2001 Skoda Riptide, dark blue."

She pulled her phone away from her ear and stared at it as the sound of hysterical laughter escaped the speaker. Her face became annoyed as she put the phone back to her ear. "No I'm not kidding."

**Scene LII – Casa Bartowski**

Chuck lay on the couch in the living room of the apartment. His head rested in Sarah's lap, his eyes closed and a pack of ice pressed firmly against his temple. Sarah watched him carefully, idly playing with his hair with one hand.

The front door shot open. Ellie's voice filled the room as she walked in, Devon in tow. "Chuck? Chuck?!"

"Oh, boy," Chuck muttered, sitting up.

She quickly spotted him. "Are you all right? What happened?"

Ellie crossed the room in three steps and was leaning over him before he could finish saying, "I'm fine. It was no big deal."

Pulling back the cold pack, Ellie grimaced when she saw the wound. "Ooh, that's got to hurt."

Devon added, "Whoa, Ouch-town, population you, bro." He leaned down to get a closer look. "Cut might leave a nice scar, though," he said hopefully.

"I took something for the pain," Chuck said to his sister.

"Not aspirin?" she asked fearfully.

"Not aspirin. No anticoagulants for a head wound."

"Good boy." She took his chin in one hand and moved his head back and forth, staring carefully at his eyes. "What happened?"

He took a deep breath and delivered the carefully prepared lie, laced with as much truth as was possible. "Sarah ran down the hill to catch up with me. I missed the turn to the picnic area, and while we were trying to figure out what to do, the driver of an Audi forced me off the road. I took a bit of a tumble, but the only real injury to either of us was when my head hit the steering wheel."

Ellie stopped playing with Chuck's face. "Are you having nausea? Headaches?"

"Only where the steering wheel gave a stern lecture to my forehead."

"You haven't seen anything like a stern lecture. Why didn't you call me? Hello, doctors!" She waved a hand between her and Devon. "We were right there!"

Sarah said, "There wasn't anything else you could have done. By the time we shook off the crash, the paramedics were there, and we both checked out. There wasn't any point in dragging you away from the party. Casey gave us a lift home."

Ellie continued her examination. "I don't see anything serious. Devon?"

"I don't see any signs of concussion. No signs of compression, either," Devon said. He stood up.

"I guess it looks like just a deep bruise with a minor laceration," she said dubiously. "Still, I'm furious that you didn't call us right away."

Her tone belied her words; she was more concerned than angry. Still, Chuck felt guilty at the need to wait before calling her. "Sorry, guess I wasn't thinking clearly." Somewhat nervously, he added, "You haven't asked about the car."

"I don't care about the car. It's a piece of crap. Even if it wasn't, the important thing is that you're OK." She was suddenly delivering a hug that threatened to smother him against the back of the couch.

There was a knock at the front door. Devon, sensing how he could help, went to answer the knock. "Yes?" he asked.

A man with a suit and a briefcase stood in the doorway. "Is this the home of," he paused, peering at a sheet of paper through his thin-rimmed glasses, "Ellie Bartowski?"

"Yes, but she's busy. Maybe I can help you."

"I understand that her brother was driving a car that got forced off the road this evening."

"That's right."

"I represent the party that forced the car off the road, and I am here to settle any claims."

Ellie's eyes shot open. She again crossed the room in three steps. "You represent the moron who ran my brother off the road?!"

"I assure you that my client realizes where the blame lies, and is most concerned that this matter be settled in the most expedient manner possible."

"You tell that client of yours that no matter what he offers, it isn't enough. We'll see him in court."

"Well, I doubt you have the evidence to track my client down, but he is not the type to take chances. Of course, I am bound to secrecy by the attorney-client relationship, so I am afraid I cannot be of any help there." The man in the suit gave her a prim look as he reached into his briefcase. He added, "Besides, maybe you should look at the offer before you judge my client too harshly." He extracted a sheet of paper with the details of the settlement and handed it to Ellie.

She boggled as she read the document. She handed the piece of paper to Devon, whose eyes widened. He let out a low whistle.

Ellie clearly didn't know how to react. She took the paper back and looked again. "That's … that's not a typo, is it?"

"For replacement value of the car, injury, and emotional distress – not to mention the most important detail to my client: ensuring this matter remains a private one. Suffice to say my client recognizes the danger your brother was in today and wishes to compensate you both accordingly." He shared a knowing smile with Sarah; Chuck was thoroughly occupied watching his sister's face light up as it all sunk in.

The reality was that the DNI was not happy about the amount of money that was necessary to cover this up. However, there was no hiding Chuck's injury, and the nearest replacement car wouldn't have been in place for at least three days. Something had to be done to keep the cover intact.

The profile of Ellie suggested that she was not going to let the matter go unless she had good reason to do so, and nobody in the CIA or NSA wanted the police snooping around the observatory any time soon. Still, Beckman and Graham thought that could be handled through channels.

Beckman and Graham became more amenable when Chuck pointed out that he had spent the past five months working for the CIA without pay, and this was an opportunity to partially compensate him for his efforts and the danger to his family with no trace. Still, the two had seemed slightly offended at the idea, grumbling about the cost of keeping two agents guarding him full-time as opposed to sticking him in a bunker somewhere.

The clincher had come when Sarah had pointed out that Chuck would be carpooling with Devon and Ellie a great deal more if she didn't replace her car. That just wasn't going to work when Chuck might be called away on a mission on a moment's notice; his cover would be in real jeopardy.

"Chuck," Ellie said hesitantly, "I don't want to do this if you're not–"

"Take the settlement, Ellie. It's fine. I'm fine."

The man in the suit gave them a contented smile. "I will let you hold onto that; the offer is good through the end of the week, and comes with no strings other than considering the matter closed – and one-hundred percent confidential. Review the offer, stop by my office when you are ready, and we can trade your signed form for a cashier's check." He handed her a business card with the address of his office. "Good night all," he said to the room before turning and walking away.

Devon shut the door. Ellie kept staring at the figure on the paper. With an awed look, she said, "Do you know what this means?"

"A real car?"

"Sure, a real car, but a real wedding, too!"

"A better honeymoon. A safari, or hiking the Machu Picchu trail!"

She wrinkled her nose, but she was clearly too excited to get into details. "And maybe even enough left over to put a dent in my student loans." She threw her arms around Devon and they shared a joyful laugh.

When they separated, her face lit up with a realization. "Wait, half of this is yours, Chuck. You were the one in the accident."

Devon agreed immediately. "Absolutely, bro."

Chuck shook his head. "It was your car."

"Half of this is yours," she insisted.

"OK, so how much does five-plus years of back rent come to, anyway?"

"What?! No, Chuck."

He shook his head. "Ellie, I've always wanted to pay you back for everything you've done for me, and this will probably be my only chance. There's nothing I'd rather do with that money. And if you don't want to think of it that way, consider it my wedding gift. Or as karmic payback for taking care of your wayward brother, with interest."

She wasn't one to cave easily, but something about the way Chuck spoke convinced her. "OK, Chuck. You win. But won't you even take a little of it? Maybe you can take Sarah out for a really nice dinner, or even a long weekend?"

It was Chuck's turn to cave. His face furrowed with mock sternness. "I'll take a little bit, but no funny business."

Ellie looked back at the piece of paper, a disbelieving and joyous expression on her face. Another laugh bubbled out of her as she threw her arms back around her fiancé.

* * *

"I can't believe Ellie bought it," Chuck said. He threw his coat on his desk chair and dropped onto his bed. An expression of blissful contentment came to his face as he gently lay back and allowed his beaten body to sprawl across the covers. A pained but contented sigh escaped his lips.

Sarah explained, "Well, sometimes a big lie works better than a small one. When a lawyer shows up with a big check, it's hard to get past all the zeroes, even for someone like Ellie. Besides, it's not that hard to believe. That close to Hollywood, any number of people might have been looking to keep things quiet." She put her jacket on top of Chuck's. "How's your head?"

"I feel like road kill. That shot was great, but it's gone now."

"I'll grab some Tylenol for you."

She walked across the hall to the bathroom. After finding what she was looking for in the medicine cabinet, she tapped out four pills and filled a glass with water.

By the time she returned to the room, Chuck's eyes were closed, unbothered by the bright light in his room.

Sarah smiled fondly at him. He'd had a bit of a day.

She set the glass and the pills on his nightstand in case he woke up. She turned off the overhead light, leaving the room in darkness.

After slipping off her shoes, she climbed onto the bed next to him, not bothering to remove her red top or jeans. Her head gently searched out her favorite nook in his shoulder, careful not to disturb him or put pressure on his ribs. The two times that day when she thought he had been taken from her seemed a million miles away.

Sensing her presence, his arm instinctively wrapped around her. A deep inhalation through his nose led to a murmur of contentment, the small sound filling her heart with a wondrous joy.

If this was what normal felt like, she could see why Chuck was reluctant to give it up.

Sarah reached back with her top arm and pulled the comforter over the two of them. She enjoyed the peaceful rhythm of his breathing until she, too, fell into a contented slumber.


	30. Tough Questions

**Scene LIII – Monday Morning, Buy More**

Chuck walked back into the Buy More with a piece of gauze taped over his head wound and a renewed sense of purpose. Maybe it was defying death twice in a day, or maybe it was riding in with Casey that reminded him of something he had been thinking about lately: he had let the people and events in his life control him for too long. It was time for that to stop.

At two minutes to nine o'clock, Chuck left the home theater room and joined the other Buy More employees, standing at attention in a military-style inspection line. An intense Big Mike walked down the line, sticking a sharp number-two pencil into each employee's outstretched hand, pointed side up, as he glared into their eyes.

At precisely nine o'clock, the three maroon shirts appeared, as if by magic. They stood together towards the center of the employee line. The red-haired woman said, "Today's Buy More assessment consists of two parts: the ARGO, the Assessment of Regulations and General Operations, and a section geared specifically towards your particular role with the store."

The blond added, "We really don't expect many of you to pass. However, it is company policy, so–"

"Maybe I can save us all some time," Chuck interrupted.

There was a murmur among the Buy More employees. Big Mike eyed him nervously.

Chuck left the line and walked up to the brunette auditor. He leaned in and, in a low voice, said, "May I have a word with you please?"

It wasn't a request. He walked away without looking back.

The three auditors shared a confused look before the raven-haired woman followed Chuck to an aisle that afforded the two some relative privacy. By the time the pair arrived, the auditor thought she had things figured out. "So, you've considered my offer?" she asked. She took in a deep breath, again getting that hungry look that suggested she couldn't wait to get her claws into him. "Did you want to get right to it, or did you want to quote some more regulations to get me hot first?"

"How about if I quote BM256J, the Buy More policy on sexual harassment? That do anything for you?"

"Sexual harassment? Please. You've got nothing to back that up. Besides, who are they going to believe: a maroon shirt or a Nerd Herd supervisor?"

He held up his iPhone. His thumb triggered a high-resolution security video of her coming onto him in the cage area, audio and all. Her eyes widened. Clearly, she didn't know about the extra security measures that Casey had taken with Buy More surveillance system.

Another deft flick of his thumb flipped the player to the next video, showing her undressing him with her eyes in front of several others as she made a snide little remark, her intentions clear.

Chuck slipped the phone into his back pocket. "I also have video of you and your hellish little sorority doing your not-so-friendly interviews of employees in the home theater room, as well as the three of you taking all the donuts out of the break room and throwing them in the dumpster. Twice. I'm thinking your boss might question your methods."

Her face went ashen. "Surely there's something we can–"

"Here's a one-time offer. The store passes the audit. You three leave. If I catch the slightest hint that you and your coven are up to your tricks at this or any other Buy More locations, these videos end up on your boss's desk the next morning."

She stared at him, speechless, clearly having no idea what to do.

"This is the part when you leave," Chuck helpfully supplied.

Beaten, the brunette woman hurriedly walked back to the waiting people. "The store passes," she said tersely to Big Mike. She nodded her head, indicating that the other auditors should follow her out of the store. "Celene?" the red-head auditor asked, clearly in disbelief at her cohort's change in attitude.

"Just do it," Celene hissed. The Buy More employees watched in stunned silence as the women flew through the store to the sea of cars in the parking lot, heatedly whispering among themselves.

Big Mike smiled broadly. "There are donuts in the break room," he proclaimed magnanimously. "Why don't you all grab one?"

The crowd cheered. Jeff and Lester did an awkward chest bump in the air, falling awkwardly to the ground in the aftermath. Morgan and Anna shared what probably was an inappropriate kiss for the workplace, one of her legs wrapping around his hips. Casey just rolled his eyes at the celebration and headed towards the back of the store.

As suddenly as the smile had come to Big Mike's face, it disappeared.

"Be back to work in ten minutes," he barked gruffly.

* * *

Big Mike was walking with Chuck through the store, his chest puffed out and a grin that wouldn't quit on his face. "So what did you tell those harpies?"

"Well, I snagged copies of a couple security videos that they didn't exactly want in general circulation."

"Blackmail, Bartowski?!" For the briefest moment, Chuck thought Big Mike might be genuinely upset. He was wrong. "You might just be manager material after all," Big Mike said proudly.

Chuck could only shake his head.

The two walked through the store; Big Mike clearly enjoyed seeing the green shirts pick up the pace as they saw him approaching. "You know the best part about getting my old job back?"

Chuck asked, "The benefits?"

"No. Well, that too. No, it's that the fear is back."

"Maybe we could scale back on the fear a bit for a few days."

"I really don't see that happening. I just got my mojo back, and I plan on taking it out for a little spin."

"Well, maybe we can leave it in park for a little while. See, I have few more security videos stored on my phone. I call them, 'A Day in the Life of Big Mike, Chapters I-VI'."

Big Mike's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"Did you know the store security camera in your office points directly at your computer screen? It's almost worse for you when you are using your computer than when you're just reading the tabloids."

He sighed. "All right, Bartowski. What do you want? A raise? That assistant manager job?"

Chuck looked around the store, searching for the right words. "Just … ease up on these guys a little. Nobody grows up dreaming of being a green shirt or a Nerd Herder in a Buy More. Most days are tough enough without you coming down on them like a ton of bricks."

Big Mike's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "How about we start with me providing donuts for a week, and I'll throw in not looking too carefully at all the times you seem to vanish for hours to dally with that girlfriend of yours over at the Weinerlicious."

Six months ago, Chuck would have withered under Big Mike's implied threat. However, he wasn't the same man he was six months ago. "It's a start," was all he said.

Big Mike let out a satisfied little noise. With one little sound, he said, 'I thought so, Bartowski.'

Chuck grinned. "It's good to know some things won't be changing around here."

His boss' face threatened to crack into a smile, although he hid it well. "Get back to work!" He even managed to sound somewhat angry.

"Yes, sir." Chuck walked away. Over his shoulder, he said, "By the way, you did a good job cleaning out the cache on your computer's Internet browser, but if you don't want people to know what sites you've been visiting, you'd better start cleaning out the cookies, too."

Big Mike looked around, nervous that somebody might have overheard the comment.

**Scene LIV – Buy More, Home Theater Room**

Casey stood alone in the curtained home theater room; General Beckman stared primly at him from the large screen on the opposite wall. "Were you able to verify whether Agent Walker has compromised herself with the Intersect?"

He thought back to Sunday afternoon, when he thought he had caught the two in the act. "No, general. I still have my suspicions, but I've been unable to verify anything."

"No matter. The new version of the Intersect is being activated as we speak. Our technicians should have the system online and operational in approximately twenty-four hours. After we get the final thumbs up, it will be time to take care of Mr. Bartowski."

Casey had been kept apprised of progress with the new Intersect, so he wasn't surprised to hear those words. "Roger that, ma'am. What should I do about Agent Walker?"

"Nothing. Even if Agent Walker is compromised, there will be nothing she can do to stop you from the Weinerlicious. When the time comes, execute your order and disappear." She nodded confidently at him. "Keep your phone on, Agent Casey." She signed off.

Casey winced at the truthfulness of her statement. General Beckman was absolutely right: nothing should stop him from putting a bullet in Bartowski tomorrow.

Except possibly for his upcoming meeting with Jennings.

**Scene LV – Buy More Parking Lot**

The automatic doors slid quietly shut behind Chuck as he left the Buy More. Glancing both ways for traffic before stepping off the sidewalk, he headed for the Weinerlicious, his shoes scrunching on the blacktop. The butterflies that normally began their antics about that point were noticeably absent.

As he navigated through the rows of parked cars and the bright sunshine, he thought about what Sarah had asked him. Could he respect that the job would always need to come first? Could he keep his end of the bargain?

Over the weekend, he had found that he could put the job first. He found that he had the strength to leave Sarah when she was in trouble and it was the right decision, no matter how much it hurt. He found that he had the will to risk his own life when it made sense for the team. His feelings for Sarah hadn't gotten in the way. If anything, they had helped him to do what needed doing.

He had even found that there were ways to spend time with Sarah in the midst of their complicated lives. There were moments he wouldn't trade for anything: their time at the bowling alley, their kiss at the party, the scavenger hunt in old Hollywood, waking up that morning to find Sarah nestled in his arms.

Chuck had found his answers. If the job had to come first, if that was the cost of being with Sarah, he was willing to pay that price – even if it meant risking his own life.

As he crossed a small, grassy median with a short, dormant tree, he spotted Sarah standing by their outdoor table. She was tough to miss, clad in her bright Weinerlicious uniform with her hair up in pigtails.

His breath caught. The butterflies were suddenly back, although subtly different.

He had always thought he wanted a normal life. However, no matter what trappings were put on Sarah Walker, she would never be a normal woman. Whether in a restaurant or on a rooftop, whether holding a skillet or a gun, any life with her would always be the furthest thing from normal.

It would be extraordinary.

When she saw him approach, a smile grew on her face. It was a smile laced with trust and affection, the type of smile that Chuck suspected few men, if any other men, had ever shared with her. The smile left him weak in the knees and shivering the slightest bit in wondrous disbelief.

It was a smile that, six months ago, would have left Chuck looking around to find the man who deserved that smile. He found that he no longer needed to look around.

All of that certainly wasn't normal, either.

* * *

"So, Beckman and Graham are happy with how things turned out?" Chuck asked.

Sarah dabbed some French fries in her ketchup and took a bite before answering. "Pretty happy, all things considered. They wish we'd nabbed Amafor, of course, and Plato being dead doesn't help much. However, we managed to grab a pair of Fulcrum agents, and we're interrogating them now. Hopefully that leads to some answers; there are still so many questions."

She took a sip of soda before adding, "More than anything, Graham and Beckman were almost apologetic that word of our mission got back to Fulcrum so quickly. They're looking everywhere for where the leak might be. And I mean everywhere." Her tone and her look spoke volumes.

"What, they're checking us out as well?"

"They're baffled, and frankly, I think they're a little scared. Not only did word of our mission leak, somebody helped the Los Mellizos henchmen escape as well. The directors are jumping at their own shadows right now. There's a leak, and it's a big one."

"They're really checking me out."

"Honestly, I think you're about the only one above suspicion. Back at the beginning, they wondered about your connection to Bryce, but with the way he came back into the picture, he's pretty much in the clear. There's no way Fulcrum could have expected us to intercept the shipment with Bryce's life support casket, so it couldn't have been a set-up. You and he may be the only two they don't suspect."

"I can't believe they'd suspect you or Casey, though."

"Don't let personal feelings fool you, Chuck. We don't understand how Fulcrum develops their hold over agents. Sometimes they use blackmail, sure, but most field agents are vetted to make sure they can't be blackmailed, and Fulcrum is turning agents who have been loyal for decades."

Chuck put on a look of mock fear. "So I might be having lunch with a Fulcrum agent?!" he whispered nervously. His eyes widened.

She threw a crumpled napkin at him.

He grinned.

The two ate their corn dogs and fries in silence for a long moment. The bright sun had helped the day's temperature rebound nicely, allowing the two to use their outside table. Not only did that allow them to discuss things that they couldn't let other people overhear, but it provided a sense of normalcy that Sarah enjoyed.

Still, there was a question brewing inside of her. Chuck had told her how the events of the weekend had led him to decide to take more control of his life. The weekend events had left Sarah working through something, too.

That thing distracted her as the two talked about nothing in particular. She found herself looking for some kind of opening to broach the subject, but that proved difficult, as Chuck was in one of his adorable but garrulous moods.

"So, I was thinking," he said.

"Uh oh."

He grinned back at her. "I was thinking about how you don't feel that you can talk about things that are too personal, you know, because of the whole invincible super-agent thing. So we can't talk about something like where you most enjoyed living while you grew up."

"That's right. So?"

"Maybe we could talk about things that we don't want to do in the future. For example, we could talk about where we wouldn't want to live."

She had to give him points for creativity; he had obviously given this some thought. Still, his thoughtfulness only highlighted the issue roiling beneath her surface. "OK, so where wouldn't you want to live?"

"Seattle."

She gave him a curious glance. "What's wrong with Seattle?"

"It just always seemed like such a dreary place. I don't mind the occasional rainy day, but Seattle has, what, three hundred days of rain a year? That's a little much."

"I guess it is." As he talked, she was alternately struck by small impulses to laugh giddily or to start crying. The need to ask what needed to be asked grew inside of her while scaring her like little could; she felt like she would burst if she didn't ask soon.

She hid it well; Chuck didn't notice. "One of my college buddies moved up there to work for Microsoft. He once told me that the reason the grass is so green up there is that all that rain produces mold and algae in the lawn."

"Yuck." She tried to create an opening. "Chuck–"

"I know. I have no idea whether it's true or not, but that image has always stuck in my mind: walking across a lawn that's a slimy mix of grass, mold and algae."

"Chuck, I nee–"

"I don't ever want to go to Seattle. Or for that matter–"

"Chuck!!"

He looked up from his lunch, shocked at her tone.

The words exploded out of her. "God, how could somebody like you ever like somebody like me?!"

His long moment of stunned silence didn't surprise her. His next reaction did.

He burst out laughing.

She stared dumbly at him. "What's so funny?"

His expression became incredulous. "C'mon, do you know how many times I've been asked how somebody like you could possibly be into me? That's just to my face. I can't even begin to guess how often that question has been asked behind my back."

"I'm completely serious. Chuck, you're this warm, wonderful man, and I'm this agent that's done these … things, these terrible, terrible things. If that weren't enough, I put all these rules around us: when we can see each other, how we have to act, even down to what we can and can't talk about. I know that kills you, but you somehow find ways to make it all work." She pushed a pile of mustard around its foil wrapper with her corn dog. "How could somebody like you ever love somebody like me?"

The corn dog fell to the foil. She hadn't meant to inject the word 'love' into the conversation. At least she had put it in a future tense.

Chuck seemed unaffected by either slip, physical or verbal. He just looked at her, wrapping her up safely in his liquid brown eyes. "Seriously? You don't know."

Sarah shook her head, afraid of what other words might escape if she spoke again.

He approached the answer to her question obliquely. "You know how I got kicked out of Stanford and lost my girlfriend."

"It's come up," she said, making a half-hearted attempt at a joke.

Chuck still smiled. "I spent five years recovering from that. Five years I spent as a self-pitying, unmotivated wreck of a person."

"But you did that for perfectly understandable reasons. Friendship and honesty mean everything to you. That's why what Bryce and Jill did affected you so much."

"I know that now. But when I was going through it, I couldn't see that. I couldn't see that I was still a good person."

"What's your point?"

"Just like my actions when I was struggling with my life didn't define the person that I was, what you do for your job doesn't define who you are. When you do whatever butt-kicking or stomach-turning things that you do, you don't do it because you enjoy it. OK, I take it back: maybe you enjoy some of the butt-kicking."

She managed a thin little smile.

He continued, "You don't do those things because you're a bad person; you do them because they're the right thing to do. You're dedicated and committed, and you have the internal fortitude to do what needs doing. Just because you're capable of doing those things and choose to do so in service to your country – those actions don't define you. They only prove how strong you are. You're strong enough to do all those things and keep the core of who you are intact.

"I know who you are, Sarah Walker. It doesn't matter what you do for your country. It doesn't matter what you're capable of doing. It doesn't even matter where you want to live or what your real name is. I know who you really are … and how terrific that person is."

Sarah's eyes slowly widened as his words sunk in. She had been so afraid that Chuck had simply put her on a pedestal, that he wasn't seeing the real her. Was it possible that he knew who she was better than she did?

She stood up and dropped her napkin in front of her. "Sarah?" he asked, puzzled.

She walked over to his side of the table and swung his chair around, just as she had swung Elsa's chair in the interrogation room. Before he could react, she lowered herself sidesaddle into his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

Clearly surprised, he took a moment to react, but when he did he lost himself fully to the kiss. For a long, delicious moment, the two were alone in their own private world, their senses full of each other.

Before too long, Chuck came to his senses and withdrew. "Wait! What about Casey? He can see us here."

Sarah never even looked towards the Buy More. She simply adjusted her arms around his neck and said, a bit coyly, "I told you the job wouldn't always come first."

She leaned in to kiss him again, but his expression clearly told her that he wasn't fully convinced. She briefly tipped her head back in thought before looking back into his eyes and explaining, "We may have to sacrifice some moments to make this work, but I'm not losing this one. Not for anything."

With more than a hint of a smile, she leaned in and kissed him again, a little bit gentler but no less intensely. His worries assuaged, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back.

Cradled in his arms, she believed she was the person that Chuck saw. She believed she was the person reflected in his eyes.

She believed that there was hope for them, and for her, after all.

_Fin_

_

* * *

Wow. Six months of writing later, the story is finally finished. Thank you for your patience._

_Obviously, there's more to this story coming. Will Casey really join Fulcrum? How do the book, the PDA and the boots fit into Fulcrum's plans? Those loose ends, along with the others, will be explored in a sequel._

_As always, I'm asking that readers please, Please, PLEASE take a little time to review this and any other fanfic that you read. Reviews are about the only payment that fanfic writers receive, so please take a few minutes. And remember: feedback on what you don't like is just as valuable, if not more valuable, than what you did. I won't be bothered if you have problems with some of what I wrote, and I'll be grateful if you point out any flaws that you see. If you don't feel comfortable leaving a negative comment or review, please feel free to PM me._

_Thank you to the various beta-readers who helped make this story what it is: big thanks go to Arathorn and Go-Chuck-Go, but also to kayla101blue, natty, and tshadow. Their advice has been invaluable. All mistakes are my own._

_Oh, and I still don't own Chuck._


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